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𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬.

unificsation

۶ৎ recs: ovulation station #2 ۶ৎ

ft. clark kent

long time no see.

here at spank bank, we deal with more than finances. we deal with fine asses.

you know the drill: clear your calendar. charge your toys. dim the lights and put your phone on do not disturb. time to goon to 12 fics—no comment means the title is self-explanatory!

⚠️ NSFW works below! Minors please do not interact. Please heed individual fic warnings.

honey-on-your-tongue

superfreak

Clark Kent Kinktober, 2025

Clark Kent masterlist

synopsis: Clark Kent is actually a freak, he's just a little shy.

All of these works contain smut. More detailed content warnings will be provided in each chapter 💛

♡ day one: fucked dumb

♡ day two: all wet // squirting

♡ day three: morning wood

♡ day four: tied him down to my queen bed

♡ day five: phone sex

♡ day six: pussy drunk

♡ day seven: so pretty // mirror sex

♡ day eight: sucking him off

♡ day nine: tummy bulge

♡ day ten: x-ray vision

♡ day eleven: thigh fucking

♡ day twelve: just the tip

♡ day thirteen: red k

♡ day fourteen: thigh riding

♡ day fifteen: edging

♡ day sixteen: he watches you touch yourself

♡ day seventeen: crybaby // dacryphilia

♡ day eighteen: sloppy toppy

♡ day nineteen: office sex

♡ day twenty: off the record // sex with him as Superman

♡ day twenty-one: somno

♡ day twenty-two: good vibes // Clark uses a vibrator on you

♡ day twenty-three: Clark in rut

♡ day twenty-four: positions

♡ day twenty-five: dry humping

♡ day twenty-six: Clark in heat

♡ day twenty-seven: please ma'am // subby!Clark

♡ day twenty-eight: dirty girl // mean!Clark (red kryptonite)

♡ day twenty-nine: jealousy jealousy // jealous!Clark

♡ day thirty: sex pollen // part 1

♡ day thirty-one: sex pollen // part 2

The Man.

Pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

Summary: You’ve been at the BAU for years. You’ve built airtight profiles, closed impossible cases, and kept the team alive more times than they realize. But the NYPD ignores you, and only listens to the other men in the room. From calling out double standards in the field to mentoring the next generation as Senior SSA. Along the lyrics of the song “The Man” by Taylor Swift.

wc: 6,2k

Masterlist

spelledbyreid

ꨄStick with me — S.R

main masterlist disabled!Reader masterlist

type 1 diabetic!Reader x Spencer Reid

summary: Spencer helps you through a rough low, then helps set up your new CGM — complete with carefully chosen stickers and some extra sweet reassurance.

author’s note: this was written because of two lovely requests I got for the series! I don’t have type 1 diabetes myself, but I’ve tried to do my research and write this with accuracy and respect. If I’ve gotten anything wrong, please feel free to let me know ♥︎

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Spencer didn’t panic. Not the way most people would—not the way you sometimes did when the warning signs came too fast, too sharp. He’d learned what low blood sugar looked like on you: the shakiness, the irritability, the way you blinked slowly like your brain was trying to stay caught up. And today, when you fumbled your glass and slurred, “I’m fine,” he was already up and moving.

“Hey,” he said softly, pressing a juice box into your hand. “You’re not fine. And that’s okay. Sip.”

Your fingers were clumsy, but you took it, sipping compliantly as he crouched in front of you. His voice stayed even, calm in a way that tethered you. He brushed hair from your face, just watching, waiting. When you were with Spencer, no one rushed you. He knew low blood sugar wasn’t drama—it was chemistry. Biology. Life.

Come Back...Be Here.

Pairing: spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

Summary: He chose the job. She never got the chance to choose. Now oceans and silence stretch between them. But some loves don’t disappear, no matter the distance. Missed chances, late-night calls, and finding your way back. Along the lyrics of the song "Come Back...Be Here" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

#Spotify #taylor swift #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #red taylor’s version #come back...be here #spencer reid angst #spencer x reader #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #dr reid #bau

How You Get The Girl.

Pairing: spencer reid x ex!reader

Summary: An unsub targets Spencer Reid by sending photos of his girlfriend, Y/N, threatening her safety without ever touching her. After the case ends, Spencer makes a heartbreaking choice—leaving her to protect her from his world. Along the lyrics of the song "How You Get The Girl" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

Spencer Reid had never thought he could feel fear like this. Not for himself.

But when Garcia showed him the envelope that had been delivered anonymously to Quantico, that changed. Inside were photographs—dozens of them. All of you. Some at work. Some at home. One especially chilling: you sitting at a café, eyes downcast, reading a book. Unaware that someone had been watching you. The message scribbled across the last photo: “She’s your weakness, Doctor. I wonder how she’d react to seeing what you keep from her.” The implication was crystal clear. This wasn’t just about fear—it was about control. The unsub had chosen you to get to him. And it was working.

Spencer didn’t tell you immediately. But he pulled away. He came home late, distracted. Held you too tightly, like you might slip away. You noticed the way he started checking locks twice. How his hand twitched when you stepped toward the window. And when the team finally caught the unsub—a delusional ex-professor obsessed with intellectual rivals—Spencer didn’t feel the usual relief. Only dread. Because now that it was over… he had to tell you. And he had to make a decision. You found him on the couch that night, shoulders hunched, staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.

“Spence?” you said quietly, approaching. “What’s going on?” “I need to tell you something,” he said. His voice cracked. “But once I do… you might hate me.” Your heart dropped. “What are you talking about?” He explained the photos. The threat. The unsub’s fixation. How long it had been going on without your knowledge. And then, the final blow: “I think we should… take a step back.” You blinked. “What?” “You’re not safe with me. You were targeted because of me. I can’t go through this again. I can’t risk you.” “Spencer,” you said, stepping closer. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle. Yes, it’s terrifying. But I love you. That doesn’t go away because of one man’s obsession.” “And you were too afraid.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and the pain in his eyes nearly broke you. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “But I’d rather lose you by choice than lose you to someone like him.” Your voice shook. “Then you don’t trust me. Or us.” “I don't want you to go.”

“I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “That’s the problem.” He left quietly that night. Not slamming doors. Not yelling. Just silence. “That's how you lost the girl.”

And you sat in the dark, knowing he’d broken both your hearts in an attempt to protect one.

It had been 6 months, 3 days, and some odd hours since you last saw him. “Say it's been a long six months.” The memory still clung like static—Spencer Reid, standing in your living room, eyes clouded with guilt and logic he used to explain why walking away was "the best thing for both of you." He didn’t cry. Not until the door shut. And not until you leaned against the other side, shaking from the ache of losing someone who once memorized your coffee order and the way your lips quirked when you were about to lie.

He left.

And he didn’t come back. Not when you needed him. Not when the apartment felt colder without his books strewn across the couch. Not even when your cat—his cat, really—refused to eat for two days straight. You moved on. Tried to. Until tonight. Until you opened the door and found him standing in the rain. Hair soaked, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes a little more hollow than before. He looked like the storm wasn’t outside—it was inside him. And for the first time in almost a year, he spoke your name like it was a question and a prayer. "Y/N…"

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not when everything you’d sewn shut ripped open again. "I—I should’ve never left." Silence stretched. He took a shaky breath. "I want you for worse or for better, I would wait forever and ever and ever" The lyric slipped out like it had been rehearsed in a hundred sleepless nights. You blinked. Rain clung to your lashes like tears that hadn’t fallen yet. "You’re quoting Taylor Swift to me?" Spencer cracked a small, almost-sheepish smile. "I’ve listened to that album a lot lately. Trying to figure out how to get the girl."

“She'll open up the door. And say, are you insane.”

"You're about 6 months too late." "I know," he said softly. "But I thought if I showed up at your door, with a smile, with a bouquet of words I never had the courage to say before—maybe you’d let me try again." Your heart hurt. Not in the jagged, fresh kind of way. But in that tender, aching way that said, you still love him, even now. "What changed?" you asked

Spencer looked down, then up—eyes glassy. "I realized that no amount of safety or logic could replace you. I wanted to protect you from everything, including me. But all I did was protect myself from feeling, and I lost the best thing I ever had." The rain started to slow, like even the sky was listening. "And if you say no," he whispered, "I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you. I still love you."

Your voice was quiet. "Why now?" "Because I’m tired of missing you in silence. I’m tired of pretending that I didn’t throw away something extraordinary." The ache gave way—slowly, but surely—to warmth. You reached out, brushing wet curls from his forehead. His breath hitched

In his hands he held a frame, the glass smudged from where his thumb had lingered too long. Inside was a photo—one she thought he’d forgotten. It was them, mid-laugh, his lips pressed to her cheek as she squinted at the camera, caught in some stolen moment of joy.

"Remind her how it used to be. With pictures in frames of kisses on cheeks."

He held it out like an offering—fragile, but full of meaning. “Before the threats. Before I pushed you away. When it was just us, this is my favorite picture of us . I miss that. I miss you.” Her fingers brushed his as she took the frame. Neither of them said a word, but the weight of the silence said everything.

"I hated you for a while," you admitted. "I hated me too." You studied him. The rain had soaked through his clothes, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just waited—like he’d wait another year if he had to. Finally, you stepped aside.

“Stand there like a ghost. Shaking come the rain.” "Come inside before you get pneumonia, Doctor Reid." He exhaled, the closest thing to a laugh caught in it. And as he stepped into the warmth of the apartment—your apartment—you weren’t sure who was more relieved. You didn’t kiss him. Not yet. But you left the door open.

The door shut softly behind him, the click echoing like a heartbeat. The moment he stepped into your apartment, it hit him like a tidal wave. The scent of your candles. The same scuff on the wall where he’d once accidentally knocked over a stack of case files. The ghost of your laugh clinging to the furniture like it never left. Spencer stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, dripping onto the hardwood, eyes darting toward the bookshelf—the same one he helped you build.

His gaze lingered on the framed photo of the two of you at a fall festival. You were laughing. He looked at you like you hung the stars. Some things hadn’t changed. You handed him a towel. Soft, lavender-scented. Your fingers brushed, and he held onto it a second too long before taking it. ”You really came here… just to say all that?” you asked cautiously, like you didn’t quite trust the idea of him being here, real and vulnerable. “No,” he said. “I came to mean it.” He hesitated, then added, voice cracking, “I came to show you how important you are too me. How much I miss you. How much I want to do better for you.”

You froze. “I told myself if I ever got another chance—if you ever opened the door—I wouldn't mess it up again. I’d tell you ‘I want you for worse or for better, and I’d wait forever and ever’ if I had to.” He looked at you then, the towel forgotten in his hand. “I would’ve come back sooner. But I was afraid you moved on. That you didn’t want me anymore.” You looked away. “I tried to move on.” His breath caught. “Did it work?” “No.” His chest loosened for the first time in months. Hope—fragile, flickering—started to come back to life.

He took a shaky step toward you. “I thought about how to get you back. Over and over. And every time, it sounded like i made the biggest mistake in letting you behind in the first place. Like I didn’t even deserve this moment, this chance.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d be safe. But I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I started hearing your voice when it wasn’t there. I’d walk into a room and expect to see you. And when you weren’t... it felt like I was coming undone.” You said nothing, just watching him fall apart in real time. “I lost my mind without you,” he whispered. “I lost me without you.” "Tell her how you must've lost your mind."

Your breath hitched.

He reached up, eyes glossy with unshed emotion, and said gently, “Say I want you, say I want you back to me…” Your heart twisted. “Spence…” “I should’ve said it back then. Every day.” His voice cracked. “Instead, I left you standing in a dress, in your doorway. I was a coward. I walked away like an idiot who didn’t know how to love without breaking things.”

“When you left her all alone.”

“You were scared.” “I still am,” he admitted. Silence fell between you like a soft snowfall. Then he whispered, almost like it hurt to say: “I miss you. I miss laughing at your terrible coffee order. I miss your books next to mine. I miss… waking up beside you and thinking, ‘This is home."

He looked down at his hands. “I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was break us.”

The room was quiet. You stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. Then you asked, “Do you want to try again?” “No.” He paused. Then, without breaking your gaze “I want to do better. I want to make you feel like this… let you hear it every day. I want to earn back everything I threw away.” You stepped closer. It wasn’t just words anymore. It was a promise. “And say you want me.”

The air shifted. He could smell your shampoo. He wanted to fall into you, but he waited. And then— You swallowed hard, eyes burning, then stepped into his arms—wet clothes and all. He stiffened for half a second, then melted against you like he’d been waiting for this moment every day since he walked away. You said it. “I want you too, Spencer.” He felt it all at once—relief, grief, forgiveness. Love. When your arms wrapped around him, he clung to you like a man who’d finally come home after a long, cold exile. Your lips met. And it wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was steady. Warm. Familiar.

“And that's how it works. That’s how you get the girl.”

The rain had stopped sometime during the night. Now, light filtered through the curtains in soft ribbons of gold. The apartment smelled like coffee and comfort, and Spencer lay beside you—awake, still, and quietly wondering if this was real. He hadn’t slept much. Not because he was anxious, but because he didn’t want to miss a single second of this. Of you, finally asleep in his arms again. Of the way your breath moved softly against his neck. Of the peace he hadn’t felt in months. You stirred beside him, stretching lazily. Your voice came out sleep-rough and soft. “You’re staring.” “I’m memorizing,” he whispered. You rolled toward him, burying your face into his chest. “Still got that eidetic memory, huh?”

“I do.” His fingers brushed through your hair. “But I want to remember this differently. Not as a statistic or timestamp. Just… the way it feels.” You looked up at him then—eyes sleepy but bright. “How does it feel?” He smiled, a slow, crooked thing that only came out when he was truly content. “Like I finally said the right words.” You laughed. “It only took you quoting Taylor Swift in the rain.” He flushed. “It worked.” You paused for a moment, tracing patterns on his shirt. “Were you scared I wouldn’t let you back in?” He nodded. “Terrified.”

“But you showed up. With a smile. With a bouquet of words you never said before.” He blinked. “You listened to the song again.” “I never stopped listening to it,” you said. “I just stopped hoping it would come true.” Spencer’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Well, I’m here now. And I’m not leaving. Not unless you tell me to.” You reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “No more leaving. No more silence.” “I promise.” He kissed you again—soft and sure. “Broke your heart, I'll put it back together.”

And as the morning light poured in, mixing with your laughter and his quiet, steady heartbeat, Spencer knew this wasn’t the end of the story. It was the reprise. Because the boy who walked away had finally learned that love is worth more than fear. And this time, he was going to show it you every single day.

“And that's how it works. That’s how you get the girl.”

pillow-coded

To Have and to Hold — Series Masterlist

content warnings: Single parent, slowburn, trauma bonding, post-prison Spencer, smut (NSFW, 18+), parental abandonment, anxiety, panic attacks, yelling/arguments, emotional miscommunication, kidnapping/child endangerment.

Spencer Reid didn’t expect to find a lost toddler in the middle of the library. He definitely didn’t expect her to grab his hand and call him a wizard. But then again, nothing in his life has gone according to plan—not prison, not grief, and definitely not the way his heart stumbles when her mother walks into the room.

She’s cautious. Private. A single mom with no time for complicated men. But Spencer is different—too kind, too awkward, too patient with a little girl who doesn’t understand what the word dad is supposed to mean anymore.

What starts as a quiet friendship slowly turns into something else: bedtime stories, late-night confessions, small moments that feel too big to ignore. And just when it starts to feel safe, everything fractures.

Because building a future means facing the past. And some ghosts don’t stay buried—especially when one of them has a name.

(slow updates (i'm so sorry, uni is killing me))

Chapter 1 — Lost and found

Chapter 2 — The return of the wizard

Chapter 3 — Dandelions

Chapter 4 — Museum Date

Chapter 5 — Photographs

Chapter 6 — You Are In Love

Chapter 7 —

Add yourself to the taglist!

you can also read this series on wattpad and A03

Shake It Off.

Pairing: spencer reid x popstar!reader

Summary: Glimpses into the chaotic, glittering life of popstar Y/N and her quiet genius : the relationship going live, new music, dates, rumors and rings. Along the lyrics of the song "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

a/n: ngl i kinda lost the plot, but enjoy! wc: 7,8K

cw: intimate moments

Spencer Reid adjusted his messenger bag awkwardly as he stood backstage at your concert. The energy of the stadium buzzed behind the curtains, a mix of bass, screaming fans, and your voice soaring through the speakers. It was a world completely unlike his usual one of serial killers and behavioral analysis. Garcia had practically shoved him into attending. “She likes you, Reid! Go see her perform! Don’t overthink it!” The final notes of one of your many hit songs echoed, and the crowd erupted. Then came your encore — and your speech. “I know some people say a lot of stuff about me — in the tabloids, online, even on late-night TV,” you said, breathless, sweat-slicked, smiling like you couldn’t be touched. “But y’know what I always say?” The beat dropped. “Hey, hey, hey. Just think, while you've been gettin' down and out about the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world. You could've been gettin' down to this sick beat” Spencer chuckled despite himself. You had told him once that you hated gossip — but that you’d learned to “shake it off.” It sounded like a defense mechanism, and he recognized it instantly. He used intellectualism. You used glitter and glittering lyrics. Backstage, after the show, you threw your arms around his neck. “Did you hate it?” He shook his head. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did. It was… fun.” You grinned. “Is that a Reid-certified review?” “Statistically speaking, the combination of upbeat music, synchronized dance, and audience interaction creates a dopamine response in the prefrontal—” You kissed him before he could finish. “Just say yes, baby genius.”

A week later, you were curled up on Spencer’s couch in one of his oversized cardigans, scrolling through your phone. The latest tabloid headline flashed: “Pop Princess Parties While Profiler Pouts — Trouble in Paradise?” You let out a frustrated groan and dropped the phone. “God, they make it sound like we’re in some reality show.” Spencer looked up from his book, concerned. “Do you want me to file a cease and desist?” You laughed, weakly. “No. I just— sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, they’re going to twist it. I post a video, they say I’m showing off. I don’t post, they say I’m hiding something. I never miss a beat, I’m lightning on my feet, but they still say I’m fake.” He set his book down and sat beside you. “Do you want to stop?” “I can’t stop,” you whispered. “I don’t want to stop. I just… wish people would stop talking about me like I’m not a person.” “That's what people say, mm-mm.” Spencer reached for your hand. “I know what it’s like to be misinterpreted. When I joined the BAU at 22, no one thought I belonged. They called me a robot. Mocked me. Assumed I was weak.” You turned toward him. “And what did you do?” “I showed them what I’m capable of,” he said softly. “Eventually. And so will you. Because you’re the strongest person I know.” You blinked at him. “I thought I was the smartest.” With a sweet smile you said. “You can be both,” he smiled, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Let the world spin. We’ve got our own rhythm.” Outside, cameras might be flashing, but in this quiet moment, you felt invincible — not because of fame, but because of him.

You leaned into Spencer’s chest, his cardigan sliding off one shoulder. “I hate how they think they know me,” you murmured, your fingers brushing the back of his neck. “The real me.” He looked down at you, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “I do,” he said. “I know you.”

There was something about the way he said it—low, reverent, like a secret being confessed in the dark—that made the air between you shift. Your heart thudded with the same rhythm that pulsed through arena speakers, but slower… heavier. You tilted your head. “Then prove it.” His breath caught, eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”

You didn’t answer with words. You closed the space between you with a kiss, slow at first, until his hands found your waist and pulled you into his lap. He tasted like cinnamon tea and something distinctly Spencer—warm, a little hesitant, but all-consuming once he gave in. As your lips moved against his, your hands wandered—beneath the hem of his sweater, over the sharp lines of his ribs and the softness of his skin. His cardigan slipped further down your arms as his lips trailed to your jaw, then down the column of your throat.

“You’re not some pop persona to me,” he whispered against your collarbone. “You’re Y/N. The one who snorts when she laughs. The one who steals my FBI sweaters and sings in the shower off-key.” You laughed breathlessly. “I never miss a beat,” remember?” Spencer smiled against your skin. “Then why is my heart completely off tempo right now?” You tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling. “Maybe we need to reset the rhythm.”

That’s all it took. The way he kissed you after that—like he’d been thinking about it all week, maybe longer—was less composed, more needy. You gasped as he lifted you with surprising strength, carrying you to the bedroom like he already knew every step in this dance. Spencer laid you back against the pillows, his gaze dark but soft, reverent. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured as his fingers traced your thighs, slow and deliberate. “I’ll tell you if I want you to keep going,” you teased, breathless. That earned a smirk — rare and devastating — just before he leaned down, kissing a trail from your ribs to your hips, peeling fabric from your skin like he was unwrapping a secret.

He wasn’t rushed. Every movement was patient, like he was profiling your body — learning what made you tremble, what pulled gasps from your lips, what made your back arch. His mouth followed his hands, exploring you with maddening slowness. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered into your skin, “but not because they say it on magazine covers. Because I see you.” You pulled him up, your hands tangled in his hair, kissing him deeper, needier. “I want all of you, Spencer. Now.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t frenzied—it was complete. He moved with rhythm, like he was composing a symphony only you could hear. Each thrust was laced with emotion, soft moans, whispered affirmations: “You feel incredible.” “You’re everything.” “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Your fingers dug into his back as your bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, riding that high together—until you came undone in his arms, trembling with pleasure, calling his name like a melody. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a broken moan, as if letting go in your arms was the safest thing he’d ever done. The room was dim, the only light a soft amber glow from his bedside lamp. You lay curled against Spencer, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Finally, you whispered, “Do you think it’ll always be this complicated? Me in the spotlight. You in the line of fire.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “Maybe. But I think… when we come back to this—this room, this bed, this… us—it won’t matter what’s outside.” You traced circles on his chest. “They’re already speculating about us. If I post you, I’ll get hate. If I don’t, I’ll get accused of hiding you.” Spencer kissed the top of your head. “Then don’t post anything for them. Just live for you. For us.” You smiled, half-asleep. “That’s kind of poetic for someone who quotes Freud and quantum physics.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he murmured, his voice a lullaby. You sighed contentedly. “You know, the next time they say I’m ‘dating above my IQ,’ “Got nothing in my brain. That's what people say, mm-mm” I’m just gonna say, ‘Damn right I am.’” Spencer laughed, low and real. “Well, the haters gonna hate, right?” You turned to face him, hand on his cheek. “And I’ll keep shaking it off. As long as I have you to come home to.” And in the quiet, wrapped in each other, nothing else mattered.

It started with a red carpet photo. You were in Milan for a music awards event — Spencer couldn’t make it due to a case in L.A. You’d FaceTimed that morning, but now he was scrolling through Twitter on the jet back to D.C., and there it was:

Y/N looking cozy with chart-topping DJ Luca Thomas — new collab or something more? “Cause the players gonna play, play, play.”

The photo showed you in a glittering backless gown, laughing with the tall, annoyingly handsome producer, his hand just a little too familiar on your lower back. Spencer felt something twist in his chest — irrational, he told himself. He trusted you. Still, the image burned in his mind like a profile he couldn’t shake. When he finally saw you that night, already jetlagged and in one of his shirts, you greeted him with a smile and open arms. But his hug was tight. Possessive.

“You okay?” you asked, nuzzling into his shoulder. “You and Thomas looked... close,” he said, voice casual but eyes sharp. You pulled back, blinking. “It was press. You know how red carpets are—everyone gets touchy when there's a million flashes going off.” Spencer didn’t respond right away.

“Wait,” you said, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Are you jealous?” “No,” he said too quickly. “I’m… concerned.” “About?” He exhaled. “I’m not used to dating someone the whole world wants. And I know I’m not... flashy. Or charming on camera.” You cupped his face gently. “You’re not a stage show, Spencer. You’re home. Luca Thomas is a playlist. You’re the whole damn symphony of my heart.” “It's like I got this music in my mind. Sayin', "It's gonna be alright"

His brows furrowed, then softened. “That’s oddly romantic coming from someone who once rhymed ‘Ferrari’ with ‘party.’”You laughed. “Come here, genius.” You kissed him slow, hand slipping under his sweater. “I’ll prove who I belong to. Again.” And he let you.

Two weeks later, you were performing at a major charity gala, and you pulled a surprise move mid-show. The crowd screamed as you stepped forward in a shimmering black jumpsuit, mic in hand, music dropping to a hush. “I’ve got someone really special in the audience tonight,” you said, scanning the front row where your friend, garcia and Spencer sat, awkwardly in a tailored suit Garcia forced on him. “He doesn’t like attention. Or loud noise. Or… people.” Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“But he likes me for me. And that means more than any award I’ve ever won.” Gasps and coos from the audience. “So, Dr. Spencer Reid… this one’s for you.” The band kicked into a dreamy acoustic version of “the lakes” — stripped down, even slower, almost reverent — and your eyes never left his the entire time.

Backstage after, paparazzi swarmed the exits. Spencer instinctively reached for your hand, unsure. “You sure you want to be seen with me?” he asked, teasing, but a flicker of doubt in his voice. You squeezed his hand. “I need to be seen with you. Otherwise how will the world know my taste is impeccable?” A camera flash popped. You leaned in and kissed him — soft, public, no hiding. And for the first time, Spencer didn’t flinch.

The kiss made headlines by midnight.

“Pop Queen Y/N Confirms Romance with FBI Genius — Worlds Collide in the Best Way”

“Dr. Reid? More Like Dr. Steal Your Girl”

“Some Fans Swoon, Others... Not So Much” Your social media exploded. @ ynupdates: Y/N kissing Spencer Reid on stage just fixed my trust issues. @ Dr.Reidpage: My FBI crush is dating a popstar. I’m both betrayed and so proud. But, of course, the haters were loud too. @ popgossip24: Why is she dating that nerdy FBI guy?? She could have anyone. @ foryoupage: He looks so awkward, like he doesn’t even belong in her world.

You rolled your eyes scrolling through the comments, curled up next to Spencer in bed, his shirt half-buttoned, hair still messy from sleep. He looked over your shoulder. “Should I profile their insecurities one by one?” You laughed. “That’s what I love about you.” He kissed your cheek. “Not that I need to remind you, but the players gonna play, play, play, play, play...” You joined in with a grin. “And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate...”

He raised an eyebrow. “So what do we do?” You grabbed your phone and posted a photo of the two of you: Spencer mid-laugh, wearing your sunglasses, you in his cardigan, holding a coffee mug that said 'Talk BAU to me.'

Caption: ” I keep cruisin'. Can't stop, won't stop groovin.” #softlaunchcomplete #shakeitoff #reidsmine #hatersgonnahate

The post racked up 4 million likes in four hours. Garcia texted: “YASSSSS. He is trending. I repeat, Dr. Reid is trending. Protect him at all costs.” Later that day, paparazzi caught the two of you walking hand in hand near Quantico, coffees in hand, sunglasses on.

“Y/N and Reid: Lowkey, Lovey, and Unbothered”

You whispered to him as cameras clicked, “You know we’re a meme now, right?” He nodded. “Then let them meme. I have you. That’s the only headline I care about.” And despite the chaos, the headlines, and the noise — when he looked at you, it all melted away. You were just Y/N and Spencer. And the rest? You’d “shake it off.”

The event was huge: a cross-industry charity gala bringing together top names from music, film, and federal service. And somehow, that meant you and Spencer walking the red carpet together for the first time — officially.

You were radiant in a sleek, deep crimson gown, sparkling under every flash. Spencer was in a classic black tux (thanks to Garcia), looking criminally handsome and only slightly panicked. “Just breathe,” you whispered, looping your arm through his. “I memorized calming breathing techniques in five languages. None of them apply when someone yells ‘kiss her again for the camera.’”

You laughed and leaned in. “You’re doing amazing.” Just then, a reporter waved you over. “Y/N! Dr. Reid! Over here — can we grab a quick word?” You nodded and led Spencer to the mic. The reporter, bright-eyed and clearly thrilled, smiled. “Okay, first of all — couple of the year, easily. You look stunning, and Dr. Reid, might I say, very dashing.”

Spencer adjusted his glasses. “Thank you. I let someone else dress me today.” You squeezed his hand. “Garcia. She’s a miracle worker.” The reporter grinned. “Now, Y/N — you recently went viral for dedicating a song to Dr. Reid at your concert. And then that kiss backstage broke the internet. What made you decide to go public?”

You smiled at Spencer. “Because the truth deserves a spotlight, too.” “Besides,” you added with a wink, “the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…” The reporter gasped. “You didn’t. That was iconic.” Spencer cleared his throat. “She warned me when we started dating. She’s not subtle.”

The reporter turned to him. “Dr. Reid, you’re usually pretty private. How does it feel to suddenly be in the entertainment spotlight?” He looked thoughtful for a second. “Well… it’s unusual. There are more sequins and fewer serial killers than I’m used to. But if it means standing beside her, I can adjust.” You visibly melted. So did the crowd.

One final question came in: “Any advice for dealing with the public pressure, Y/N?” You leaned into Spencer. “Find someone who sees you — not your followers, not the headlines. Just… you.” And as the cameras flashed and the world buzzed, you and Spencer walked down the carpet like you belonged — because you did. Together.

Spencer Reid had been shot at. Kidnapped. Drugged. Tortured. He’d once outsmarted a cult leader in a Mexican prison using only a rubber band and his knowledge of obscure mathematics. None of that prepared him for a red carpet event. Flashbulbs popped in chaotic rhythm. The sound was overwhelming. Everyone wanted something — a smile, a wave, a quote. But none of it mattered, because she was beside him. Y/N.

In a red dress that made his thoughts short-circuit. Not because of the fabric or the cut — though yes, that too — but because of how comfortable she looked in her own skin. How she glowed. She held his hand like it grounded her. She made the cameras seem irrelevant. And when she quoted Shake It Off with a wink at the interviewer, he felt something bloom in his chest he hadn’t quite named before: pride, maybe. Or awe. Or something dangerously close to forever. after the tiring event they went to her place, to relax and come down of the high.

They stumbled through the front door, laughing.“Okay,” she said, kicking off her heels. “Be honest. Did you hate it?” “I’ve delivered psychological profiles to murderers who were more relaxed than I was tonight,” Spencer admitted, loosening his tie. “But… no. I didn’t hate it.”

She raised a brow. “Even the part where that one reporter called you ‘America’s most dateable genius’?” “That was… unsettling.” “Hot,” she corrected, pulling him closer. “It was hot.” She kissed him, soft and playful at first. Then slower. Deeper. She tasted like champagne and cherry flavoured gloss and something sweet he couldn’t name. “You gonna help me out of this dress, Dr. Reid?” she murmured against his mouth. His brain short-circuited again. “Statistically speaking, zippers in tight-fitted gowns are—”

She turned, pulling her hair to one side. “Zip. Now. Or I’m gonna call Garcia to do it..” He swallowed, fingers slightly shaking as he undid the zipper. The dress slid down like a whisper, pooling at her feet. “I’ll never understand how this is both an outfit and structural engineering,” he mumbled, mesmerized. She stepped out of the dress and into his arms, smiling. “You’re the only structure I care about tonight.”

They ended up tangled on the couch — her legs across his lap, your laughter echoing around the apartment, interrupted only by kisses and the occasional: “Wait, did that reporter really ask if I was training you for fame?” She smirked. “You’re untrainable. That’s why I love you.” He paused. Looked at her. “You… do?” She blinked, realization dawning. “Oh.” “I mean,” she rushed, “yeah. Kinda. Not in a pressure-y way. In a… I think I already do and I don’t want to not anymore way.”

Spencer smiled — slow, soft, a little stunned. “Good,” he said, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Because I love you, too.” And outside, the world kept spinning. But in here, it was quiet. In here, they were just Spencer and Y/N. And they didn’t need anything else but eachother — not tonight.

It had been a hell of a week. A whirlwind of PR meetings, rehearsals, and an exhausting photo shoot where your stylist insisted on taping you into an outfit so tight you couldn’t fully breathe. All you wanted now was sweatpants, tea, and Spencer’s arms around you. When you walked into your apartment that night, it was quiet — except for the soft hum of jazz playing from the record player. Spencer wasn’t on the couch, but a small note sat on the coffee table. “In the bedroom. No shoes allowed. — Spencer”

You smiled, kicked off your heels, and followed the scent of cinnamon and paper and something faintly musky — his cologne. Inside your bedroom, candles flickered low, casting golden light on the bed — and sitting on the duvet was a box. Wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. Very Spencer.

Another note sat on top, written in his careful, neat handwriting. “For the girl who can sell out stadiums and still makes time for Dr.Who reruns with me. Thought you could use something... grounding. Love, Spencer.” You sat down, heart fluttering, and opened the box. Inside was a first edition copy of your favorite childhood book — the one you once told him you used to read backstage when you were 12, nervous before performing at school talent shows. Pressed inside the front cover was a Polaroid of the two of you at a used bookstore, both in sunglasses and hoodies, hiding from fans.

Below it, in his handwriting again: “You’ve always been magic. Even before the spotlight.” You didn’t even realize you were crying until you heard the door creak behind you. Spencer stood in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He paused. “Too much?” You shook your head, eyes glassy. “No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He walked over, set the mugs down, and wrapped his arms around you from behind. “I just wanted to remind you that before all the noise, the cameras, the flashing lights… you were already enough.” You turned and kissed him — slow, deep, and grateful. And that night, the gift wasn’t just the book. It was the silence. The stillness. The way he saw you, even when you forgot how to see yourself.

It was supposed to be a cozy morning. Rain tapped softly on the windows, the two of you curled on the couch, legs tangled, sharing a blanket and sipping coffee. Spencer was reading aloud from a book about obscure ancient symbols. You were only half-listening, more focused on how happy he looked — hair still messy, glasses low on his nose, smile soft.

Then his phone rang. His whole body shifted. He stood immediately, the warmth disappearing from beside you. “Reid.” A pause. “What? Where?” You sat up, heart dropping. He was already pulling on his jacket.

“There’s been a shooting. An agent’s down. They need us at the scene — Quantico dispatched the jet ten minutes ago.” Your throat tightened. “Do you have to—?” “I have to.” You stood, walked over, grabbing his hand. “Be careful.” He looked at you like he wanted to say a hundred things — but settled on, “I’ll call you when I land.”

It has been radio silent ever since he left. You have been waiting, scared, by the phone for hours. For an update, a message, a call, anything to know he’s save. It was 2:07 AM when you saw the first headline.

“FBI Agent Caught in Hostage Situation During Ongoing Case — No Confirmed Fatalities”

Your stomach dropped. No confirmed fatalities. But no names, either. You tried calling. No answer. Then texts. “Are you okay? Please, Spence, say something.I don’t care about protocols — I just need to know you’re breathing.”

The internet was relentless. People already tagging your name alongside vague theories.

@ fandombuzz: Y/N’s FBI boyfriend was allegedly injured during today’s standoff? @ nosycatlover: If that nerd dies I swear I’m never listening to her again.

You were spiraling. And then — finally — your phone lit up. Unknown number. You picked up, voice cracking. “Hello?” “Hey…” Spencer’s voice was low, exhausted. “It’s me. I lost my phone during the evacuation.” You closed your eyes, chest heaving. “I thought—God, I thought I was gonna lose you.” “I’m okay. A few bruises. But alive.” You felt the tears hit, hard and fast. “I can’t shake it off, Spencer. Not when it’s you.”

There was silence for a second. Then you heard the break in his voice,he whispers softly to you “I’m sorry for scaring you, I hate this feeling. I promise I’ll try harder to update you.”

“You better, I can’t breath right until I know you're safe."

The Next Morning – When He Comes Home The second he walked through the door, still in his wrinkled FBI vest, you launched into him — arms around his neck, lips crashing into his. “You scared the hell out of me.” “I scared myself,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “All I could think about was getting back here. Back to you.” You touched the side of his face gently. “Next time you go running into danger…” “Yes?”

“You take me with you. Or you take a damn tank.” He chuckled, voice hoarse. “Noted.” Then you whispered, “Promise me you’ll always come home.” “I promise,” he said, eyes locked with yours. “Because wherever you are… that’s home.”

The venue was glowing with golden lights, music pulsing through the rooftop as the crowd swayed in a slow-burning rhythm. You were in a deep purple-colored dress that shimmered every time you moved. Spencer was beside you in a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up, tie long forgotten, curls soft and touchable. And most importantly? You were blissfully happy. Until—

“Oh my God!,” a voice cut through the bass-heavy track behind you. You turned. There he was. Your ex. Wearing smugness like cologne. And beside him? His new girlfriend — clearly dressed to outshine someone. You.

She blinked at you, mouth slightly parted. “Wow. You look… different.” Spencer stepped closer to you instinctively, hand on your waist. You gave her a once-over, then smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, different’s always been my thing.” Spencer leaned in, whispering in your ear. “That him?” “Mm-hmm,” you murmured. “The ex-man. With the dramatic accessories.”

“My ex-man brought his new girlfriend”

“But I’m just gonna shake…” You looked Spencer straight in the eye, grinning. And you did exactly that. You grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor, not even glancing back as you twirled into his arms, the crowd cheering around you.

“And to the fella over there with the hella good hair.” You sang the line to him, giving him a big wink and “Won't you come on over, baby?”. Spencer laughed — loud and real. Dragging your fingers through his curls playfully, trying to kiss him as he pulled you close, then spinning you out and back in like he’d been dancing his whole life. “I’m the fella with the hella good hair?” “You are,” you said, lips brushing his jaw. “And you’re mine.” His voice dropped, low and warm. “They can stare all they want. I’m not letting you go.” And he didn’t. “We can shake, shake, shake.”

While your ex watched, bewildered at how little power he had left over you, you were wrapped in the arms of the man who actually saw you - sparkling, alive, unbothered. So you danced. And laughed. And didn’t look back.

You were humming as you kicked off your heels, still high from the energy of the night. “I think I actually enjoyed that,” you said, flopping onto the couch and tugging him down beside you. Spencer didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you. You tilted your head. “What?” “I just… I watched you tonight,” he said slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “The way you danced, the way you smiled when he walked in. Like he was nothing. Like the past didn’t even scratch you.”

“It didn’t,” you said softly. “Not really. Not compared to this. Compared to you.” He smiled faintly, but there was something deeper in his eyes. “I think tonight made me realize how terrified I am of losing you.” Your brow furrowed. “Spencer—” “Not because of him,” he added quickly. “I know I’m not that kind of afraid. It’s just… you’re brilliant, and radiant, and fearless. You walk into rooms and change the atmosphere. I walk into rooms and analyze the oxygen.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “You walk into rooms and make me feel safe in a way no spotlight ever has.” His eyes closed. He inhaled the way he always did when overwhelmed — sharp, then slow. “I don’t know how someone like me ended up dancing with someone like you,” he whispered. You kissed him gently. “Because there is no one on this world that can make feel as loved as you ever have. I feel honored that I get to hear all your briljant thoughts.” You sniffled, realising how true your words are. “And because you’re “the fella with the hella good hair,” you teased.

He laughed under his breath. “And,” you added more softly, pulling his hand over your heart, “because this? It beats louder for you than it ever did for anyone else.” Silence stretched between you — not awkward, but reverent. Then he kissed you. Not desperate, not rushed. Just real. And when you curled into him on the couch later, his voice barely audible, he whispered something into your hair that made your eyes sting. “I don’t just love you. I love you more than I thought I could ever love anything.”

The lights dimmed. The roar of the audience softened into an expectant hush. Tonight, the cameras weren’t your enemy. The crowd wasn’t pressure. Tonight, it was just you and him.

Spencer Reid sat in the front row of the Music & Media Impact Awards, utterly still except for the nervous way his fingers tapped on his knee. He looked breathtaking in a charcoal suit, hair freshly trimmed but still curling slightly at the ends. His handsomeness wasn’t loud — it never was. But to you? He was the only one in the room.

And tonight… you were going to tell the whole world why. The stage lights flared. You stepped into the glow, mic in hand, glittering gown catching every spotlight. The crowd erupted. You leaned into the mic, heart racing. “This next song isn’t on the album,” you began. “I wrote it in secret, after someone walked into my life who reminded me that love doesn’t have to hurt. That it can be kind, quiet, and still make you feel like a damn hurricane.” “I'm lightnin' on my feet. And that's what they don't see, mm-mm.”

The crowd murmured. Spencer blinked, visibly startled. “This one’s for the man who never tried to dim my light — only ever held up a mirror so I could see it for myself.”

The piano began. And then you sang. “Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night. My baby's fit like a daydream.” Not about heartbreak. Not about fame. But about a boy with brilliant eyes and messy hair who could recite Shakespeare and statistics in the same breath. About late-night bookshop dates, whispered kisses behind closed doors, and dancing barefoot in the living room to jazz no one else heard.

Your voice cracked once — but it only made the lyrics hit harder. Midway through, the camera panned to Spencer. And the world saw it. The way he looked at you like he was watching the stars breathe. The way his lips parted in awe. The way his eyes — red-rimmed — never left your face. When the final note fell, the crowd rose to their feet. A standing ovation. Roaring applause.

But all you saw was him — standing too, hands trembling slightly as you stepped off the stage and walked straight into his arms. “Was that…” he started, breath caught, “for me?” You pulled him closer. “Every note.” He kissed you right there, in front of the world, in front of the flashing cameras and open mouths and stunned press. And somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered: “That’s not just a song. That’s the real thing.”

By morning, the internet was in meltdown. @ PopCrave: Y/N’s surprise love ballad at the MMIA leaves crowd sobbing — and Dr. Spencer Reid in tears. @ cultureunfiltered: Pop star writes new song for FBI profiler boyfriend… and yes, this is our Roman Empire now. @ DailySleaze: Dr. Spencer Reid: Hot Nerd or Heartthrob Hero? A deep dive into why smart is the new sexy.

Your DMs were chaos. Your team was losing their minds. And your fans? Unhinged in the best way. @ ynnation: We don’t want a bad boy, we want a genius in a cardigan who’ll annotate our heart. @ brainyxyn: "He never dimmed my light — only held up a mirror." HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME CRY BEFORE COFFEE.

Meanwhile, Spencer had tried (and failed) to mute the noise. “Do you know how many ‘hot nerd’ listicles I’ve been involuntarily added to?” he asked that night, holding up his tablet. “I think someone made a Buzzfeed quiz titled ‘Which of Spencer Reid’s Ties Matches Your Emotional Damage Level.’” You snorted. “Okay, but do they get it right?” “I got ‘The Maroon One That Says You Need Therapy.’” “Accurate.”

He gave you a long-suffering look — then smiled. “They don’t know the half of it.”

Two days later, you came home to a note on your piano. Do not open until I tell you to. Also: turn off your phone. I mean it. —Spencer. You obeyed. He arrived 20 minutes later, wearing a cozy grey sweater and carrying a manila folder. “I wrote you something,” he said, clearly nervous. “But I… I don’t do songs. I do science.”

You opened the folder. It wasn’t a love letter. It was a proof. Titled: "The Mathematical Probability of Forever: A Personal Hypothesis.” It included: • A Venn diagram titled "Your Chaos + My Logic = Something Sustainable” • A timeline with key events labeled things like “first eye contact” and “first mutual book hangover” • A small scatterplot of serotonin levels from his daily journal entries since meeting you • And at the bottom, written in the margin beside an impossibly sweet equation: “You are the constant in every variable I can’t control.”

You blinked, tears rushing in uninvited. “Spencer,” you whispered, voice cracked. “This is… this is everything.” He fidgeted, suddenly shy. “Does it make sense?”

“Yes, ofcourse,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. “It makes sense, it makes feelings. In the best way possible.” He buried his face in your neck, voice warm with relief. “Good. Because I think I just scientifically proved that I’m in love with you.” You laughed, a little teary. “Guess we’re peer-reviewed, then."

Spencer had never been inside a recording studio. He walked in cautiously, wide-eyed, eyes darting between the mixing board, walls padded with soundproofing, and your lyric scribbles scattered everywhere like clues to a case. You stood in a pair of Spencer’s mismatched socks in the vocal booth (for good luck), headphones around your neck, humming softly into the mic. Spencer sat outside, watching you through the glass with the reverence of someone who couldn’t believe they were even allowed to.

“I’m stuck,” you said over the intercom, pressing the button. “Bridge is mostly done.

Just need a good ending, something grounded.” Spencer tilted his head. “What’s the bridge? You recited it:

“I was spinning in circles, chasing my doubt. Trying to find what life’s all about. My heart was a puzzle with pieces misplaced. ‘Til your love came in and softened the pace” He thought for a moment, then mumbled, almost to himself: “Now you’re the variable that stabilized my chaos.”

You blinked. “Say that again.” He looked startled. “What?” You burst into a grin, slamming the intercom button. “That! Spencer! That is the line!” He flushed red. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to write a lyric.” You laughed. “You just accidentally wrote the entire soul of the track.”

Two Weeks Later – The Announcement You posted a black-and-white photo. You. Spencer’s hand in yours, just visible. The edge of a page. A scribbled line in pencil. “You’re the variable that stabilized my chaos.”

And below it, the caption: New Album: CHAOS THEORY Out this fall.

The internet imploded. @ PopCrave: Y/N’s new album title confirms long-rumored scientific influence from her FBI boyfriend. @ brainyxyn: *CHAOS THEORY?? That’s literally Reid-coded. She's naming an era after his entire worldview. @ spencergfactual: This is how you love someone like Spencer Reid. You name your art after their brain. @ culturedromantics: We are getting an intellectual, emotionally literate love album. Buckle up.

Spencer just looked at you over his book that night, stunned. “They really think this whole thing is about me?” You kissed his temple and whispered, “That’s because it is.”

CHAOS THEORY (Launch Night)

The venue pulsed with anticipation — intimate, moody, lit with deep violets and golds. Just a few hundred fans, press, and industry insiders packed in to witness the live debut of your new album. Spencer stood backstage, fidgeting slightly, wearing all black. He’d been quiet all day — proud, yes, but tense. Like your success was a miracle and he didn’t want to breathe too loud in case he broke it.

When you walked past him toward the stage, he gently caught your hand. “You okay?” you asked. He nodded. “Statistically? This may be the night the world realizes what I’ve always known.” You blinked, thrown. “What’s that?” He leaned in and murmured, “That you're brilliant in ways no algorithm can measure.” And with that, you took the stage.

The setlist was a ride — deep, aching ballads, glittering pop confessionals, even a spoken-word interlude called “Parallel Lines” that referenced one of Spencer’s journal entries.But the moment of the night?

Track 7: “Paper Rings ” —an upbeat, sparkling, chaotic-love anthem that had the entire room on its feet. You twirled, laughed through the lyrics, eyes finding Spencer in the wings.

“Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet. Now I've read all of the books beside your bed./ I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings./ Blue ink vows and quantum things.”

And the crowd lost. its. mind. Twitter exploded before the song ended: @ popwitch: UM is Y/N saying she'd marry Spencer with PAPER RINGS? @ wifeyynnation: Blue ink vows. And quantum things?? She’s so gone for him I’m SCREAMING @ diamonddetectors: Not to alarm anyone but there is DEFINITELY a gold band on her right hand tonight. Engagement ring flipped around?! You were still breathless, glowing from the lights and adrenaline, when Spencer met you at your dressing room door. “That song,” he said, eyes soft and unreadable, “you really meant that?” You nodded, still catching your breath. “I don’t need a diamond. Just you. Paper rings would do.”

He kissed your forehead — then reached into his coat. And handed you a tiny origami ring, made from a torn-out page of one of his journals. Inside the fold, in tiny perfect print: “Proposal probability: inevitable.” You laughed. You cried. You kissed him until the makeup smudged. And somewhere down the hall, a photographer caught the flash of gold on your finger as the door shut behind you.

By 8am, the headlines were out of control: @ EntertainmentDaily: Paper Rings and Real Sparks: Is Y/N Secretly Engaged to Dr. Spencer Reid?! @ thePOPhour: “I’d marry you with paper rings” — Popstar's new song ignites engagement rumors after suspicious hand photo surfaces. @ GossipGenie: FBI refuses to comment on whether Dr. Spencer Reid has proposed to global pop sensation… but our hearts say yes.

Clips of your “Paper Rings (and Theories)” performance trended for 48 hours straight. And the fans? Fully unhinged.

@ ynnation: If they don’t actually get married with a paper ring and they don't adopt a dog and call him Schrödinger, and make him the ring bearer, I will sue. @ spencerfiles: He gave her a homemade origami ring. WE ARE LIVING IN A NOVEL. @ engagedintheory: I calculated the trajectory of this relationship based on

Spencer’s facial expression during that song and yes. It’s a proposal arc.

Even your label leaned in, dropping a cryptic teaser: “Track 13 is classified.” Which, of course, sent your fans theories into orbit.

Spencer had never planned anything like this before. Not a press conference. Not a field op. Not even one of the 187 surprise birthday parties Garcia tried to rope him into.

This was different. This was you. So he made a list (of course).

Proposal Outline – v3.4 by Dr. Spencer Reid Objective: Propose to Y/N using personalized symbolic logic and emotionally resonant memories, while maintaining discretion and maximizing emotional impact. Stage 1: Location • Initial pick: the bookstore where we first hid from a storm. • Revised: planetarium after-hours, private viewing of Cassiopeia (her favorite). Request meteor simulator. Stage 2: Object • Custom ring: inscribed with the phrase “stabilized chaos” in Latin. (Ask Garcia for engraving vendor.) • Also: duplicate origami ring, sealed in glass as keepsake. Stage 3: Delivery • Monologue: include quotes from her favorite poets + Alan Turing + something dumb I said that made her laugh. • Close with: “There is no formula for love, but I would still spend my life solving for you.” Stage 4: Contingencies • In case of tears: pocket tissues. • In case she says no: improbable. Statistical margin of error: 0.002%.

He closed the notebook and looked down at the velvet box in his hand. He wasn’t nervous — not exactly. He was ready. And so, so in love. He just needed the stars to align. Literally.

"It's like I got this music in my mind. Sayin', "It's gonna be alright"

You thought it was just a late-night surprise. Spencer had been vague all day — “Wear something warm,” “Trust me,” “No, I’m not hacking NASA again,” and “Yes, it involves stars.”

The car dropped you off at a quiet observatory in the hills just outside D.C. Security led you through a side entrance, and when you stepped into the main dome, the lights were low... and it was just the two of you. No astronomers. No public crowd.

Only the hush of awe and the curved ceiling above, suddenly alive with constellations. Cassiopeia blinked into view. Your favorite. Spencer had remembered. Of course he had. You turned to find him, but he was already standing in the center of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other reaching out to you. "Come here."

You walked slowly to him, the silence thick with something beautiful and terrifying. He was wearing his soft grey cardigan — the one you always stole — and his expression looked somewhere between reverent and undone. “I’ve been preparing this,” he said, voice shaking. “For weeks. Actually, months. Realistically? Since about three minutes after I met you.”

You laughed softly, your breath fogging in the cool air. “You are unpredictable,” he continued, “which, for someone like me, should be unbearable. But instead… you’ve redefined what safe feels like. You made chaos feel like home.” Behind him, the stars flickered and spun — a slow cosmic dance. He pulled a folded page from his coat pocket. It was torn from one of his journals. A star map, annotated in his handwriting. You glanced at it, confused — until you saw what he had circled. You. A point in space marked in constellation. Labeled “Constant.”

He dropped to one knee. The room stilled. He opened a velvet box — not just any ring, but a delicate band with a tiny engraving on the inside you’d later find said "amor est scientia" — love is knowledge. “I don’t have a formula for forever,” he said softly. “But I know the constant in every equation I want to solve for… is you.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Could only nod — then say it: “Yes.” His hands trembled as he slid the ring onto your finger. You kissed him. Hard. Gripping his cardigan like you’d never let go. Somewhere in the rafters, a meteor simulation streaked across the digital sky. And beneath it, the genius who thought he didn’t deserve this kind of love finally understood: he was her muse too.

Back at Quantico, the BAU squad had never seen Spencer this nervous—and glowing—at the same time. Garcia was the first to notice the ring during on of their family dinners. She squealed loudly enough to make Morgan nearly drop his glass of wine. “Reid, you did this without me knowing?! I demand every detail!” she demanded, practically bouncing in her chair.

JJ smiled warmly, “It suits you both perfectly.” Morgan clapped Spencer on the back, grinning. “Man, I thought you were just gonna propose with a PowerPoint. Proud of you, dude.” Spencer adjusted his glasses, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I tried to incorporate some astrophysics, but yes… I proposed.”

You laughed and leaned into Spencer, feeling the familiar comfort of your chosen family. Hotch nodded approvingly, “Congratulations. You two deserve the happiness.” The room was filled with laughter and teasing, everyone eager to hear the story of the stars and the paper ring. You felt completely at home, surrounded by the people who had been there through everything.

Weeks later, in the quiet after the storm of the album launch and proposal rumors, you sat down with your guitar and a quiet heart. Inspired by Spencer, the team, and the moment you just lived, you wrote a song—something unpolished and raw, meant only for him. You called it: “Constellation”

A soft ballad about finding a constant in the chaos, about love as a guiding light through the darkness. You sent the track to Spencer in a private message, no pressure, no release date—just a gift. His reply came quickly, and it made you smile like nothing else could: “I’m crying. The science checks out. This is the soundtrack of my life.”

And in that quiet exchange, away from the flashing cameras and screaming fans, you both knew: this was just the beginning.

You had never intended to release “Constellation.” It was your secret song—your personal love letter to Spencer, tucked away from the spotlight. But somehow, an early demo leaked. The reaction? Instant and overwhelming.

@ PopStarIntellect: The most beautiful surprise is Y/N’s secret track “Constellation,” a stellar love ballad that sounds like it was written for the stars themselves. @ lyricdetective: “Find a constant in the chaos”??? Clearly about Dr. Spencer Reid. Fans are losing it. @ reidnation: @ reidBAU I didn’t think I could love this couple more. But this song? I’m shattered. In the best way.

Despite the leak, you and Spencer just laughed. “Guess the universe has its own PR team,” you said. He grinned, pulling you close. “And their taste in music is impeccable.”

It was a rare Saturday morning when the two of you had zero plans. You woke up to Spencer reading aloud from a vintage astronomy book while you made coffee. “Did you know,” he said, “that the Crab Nebula is the remnant of a supernova observed in 1054 AD?”

You smiled, pulling him closer. “I love how you find poetry in science.” He looked at you, eyes soft and warm. “Because you are my poetry.” You spent the day like that — lazy breakfasts, stolen kisses, writing lyrics on the porch while Spencer decoded a crossword puzzle.

Later, you two sprawled on the couch, playlists humming softly, fingers intertwined. At one point, Spencer pulled out his notebook and scribbled a new idea. “For our next song,” he said, “a love letter with equations.” You laughed. “Of course you do.” He kissed your forehead. “Because you taught me love isn’t just in feelings. It’s in logic. It’s in constellations.” And there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both knew: this was the life you’d been waiting to write.

#spotify #taylor swift #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #1989 taylor's version #spencer x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x popstar!reader #popstar!reader #dr spencer reid #shake it off #1989 tv #the eras tour

certaimromance

𝜗𝜚 The Next Door; a series.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

Playlist (updates with the chapters) ♡♬₊˚.

Finding your person is never easy, especially when they live in the apartment next door and have a life as complicated as Spencer Reid's...especially when he disappears for three whole months and comes back a different person.

main masterlist

Warnings & Tags: painter!reader who has a cat. located in season 12 (very out of canon, with many changes). mentions of drugs, jail and injuries. suggestive themes. friends to lovers. angst. hurt/comfort. two idiots obviously in love. lack of communication.

Status: In progress.

Chapters: you must read these in order to understand.

♥︎ i. the boy next door ⸺ fluff (4,1k): Making friends with your neighbor is one of the best things that ever happened to you, but falling in love with him? Not so much.

♥︎ ii. the girl next door ⸺ angst (4,8k): If Spencer thought being secretly in love with you was hard, having to avoid you in the hallway was even worse.

♥︎ iii. the other boy next door ⸺ angst (3,9k): Spencer is focused on not hurting you and keeping a healthy distance, but his whole world is turned upside down when he hears a male voice in your apartment.

♥︎ iv. the ghost next door ⸺ hurt/comfort (5,8k): You were trying to move on with your life and clear your head about Spencer from a safe distance, but the whole plan goes out the window when you hear his screams.

♥︎ v. the other girl next door ⸺ hurt/comfort (6k): Whenever your world has fallen, your neighbor has been there to save you, but maybe now it's your turn to do the same for him.

♥︎ vi. the liar next door ⸺ fluff/angst (8,2k): Just when Spencer's walls came down and he seemed ready to try to get back to his old self with you, all his lies started to catch up to him.

♥︎ vii. the other liar next door ⸺ angst (7,8k): Having your Spencer back is one of the best things that happened to you in the last few months. But finding out the reason behind it? not so much.

♥︎ viii. the other ghost next door ⸺ (may 23rd)

♥︎ viii. the next door ⸺ (may 24th)

Extras: read these in any order you like.

♥︎ the love next door ⸺ fluff (4,4k): When you and Spencer have no one to spend Valentine's Day with, the idea of watching movies together can save, at least, the night.

Bigger Than The Whole Sky.

Pairing: spencer reid x wife!reader

Summary: After a miscarriage, Spencer and Y/N navigate grief in silence—until a case involving a baby breaks Spencer’s composure. Through shared pain, quiet letters, and one long-overdue laugh, they begin to heal together. Along the lyrics of the song "Bigger Than the Whole Sky" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

CW: miscarriage, depression and suicidal ideation

The room was quiet—too quiet. The hum of the hospital machines had stopped hours ago. Y/N layed on the bed, a pale hospital gown laying over her body, hands cradling the soft roundness that had once held so much promise. Spencer stood nearby, his hand hovering above hers but not quite touching. He looked like a man who’d read every book in the world but couldn’t find a single page that could explain this.

Y/N finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thin and cracked. “I’m so sorry, Spence.” ‘’Salt streams out my eyes and into my ears’.”

His heart clenched. “No. No, sweetheart, you don’t have to say that. This is not your fault.” But she kept going, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It's not fair. Why not, why couldn't I carry our baby?” She gave a hollow laugh, her eyes distant. “Or is it just the cruelest kind of divine?” “Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness.”

Spencer sat down on the bed in front of her, taking her hands. “Y/N… please don’t do this to yourself.” Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she met his gaze. “I never even got to meet them. But I loved them, Spence. I loved them so much. And now all I can do is cry.” Her voice shook.

Spencer felt something in him shatter. “You didn’t even have a chance,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Every single thing to come has turned into ashes…”

He pulled her into his arms then, holding her as she sobbed into his chest. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “There’s nothing in all the languages I know that can make this okay.” “No words appear before me in the aftermath.”

“I had so much to live for,” she whispered. “So much to lose…” Spencer rocked them gently. “We lost them together. But we’ll grieve together, too. I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She closed her eyes against the pain, letting herself be held. For now, that was all either of them could do—breathe through the heartbreak and wait for the quiet to feel less heavy.

Day One. The hospital room echoed with silence long after the doctor left. Y/N stared at the ceiling, her arms empty. Spencer sat beside her, fingers laced with hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles in slow circles. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

That night, as Spencer helped her into bed at home, she finally said, “I don’t know what to do with all this time.” He paused. “What do you mean?” She looked down, eyes blank. “Time I was supposed to spend holding them… feeding them… watching you rock them to sleep.” Her throat caught. “Now it’s just… nothing.” “And I've got a lot to pine about.”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat and laid down beside her, whispering, “We’ll hold that time together.”

Week One. Grief settled like dust—coating everything. Y/N barely spoke. Spencer took time off work. He cooked food she didn’t eat, folded clothes she didn’t wear, sat beside her in bed while she stared out the window. One morning, she finally whispered, “Cause it's all over, it's not meant to be.”

Spencer didn’t know if she was talking about the baby or herself.

Week two. She began writing poetry for the baby. Something keep her busy and to try and focus all her emotions in. Spencer found the first one left on the coffee table beside a mug of untouched tea.

“Did some bird flap its wings over in Asia? Did some force take you because I didn't pray? Cause it's all over now, all out to sea.”

He read the whole letter with trembling hands, tears streaking silently down his face. That night, he brought her notebook to her room. “Do you want to read them to me?” he asked gently Y/N looked away, ashamed. “They’re just words. Useless ones.” “So I'll say words I don’t believe.”

“No,” he said. “They’re love.”

Month one. It started like all the hard days did—with not getting out of bed. The sun crept through the blinds, casting long lines across the room, but Y/N didn’t move. Her phone buzzed twice with texts from JJ and once from her sister. She ignored them all. Even the silence felt too loud. The grief was different today. Not sharp and aching, but dull and heavy—like she’d been filled with cement and left to dry.

--- y/n’s inner monologue --- I wake up, but I don’t move. The sun’s on my face, but I don’t feel warm. I hear the birds outside, the soft sounds of life moving on without me. I hate them for it. I envy them for it. The world keeps spinning, and I’m still stuck in the same moment—four weeks ago, in that sterile hospital room, staring at the ceiling while my heart broke quietly beneath the sound of machines. Everyone says time helps. But they don’t say what to do in the meantime.

I look at the corner where the bassinet used to be. It’s empty now. Spencer moved it when I was asleep. I think he thought he was helping. Maybe he was. But God, the silence is worse. There are bottles in the cabinet I can’t bring myself to throw away. I still have the little socks. The ultrasound picture. The list of names.

“I’ve got a lot to live without.”

The beeping from all the hospital equipment echoes through me like a prayer I didn’t choose. A baby I never held. Laughter I’ll never hear. First steps. First words. First everything. All gone before the beginning. And I hate that I still breathe. That I still eat. That I still function in this half-life while our baby will never get the chance to even start one.

People say “you’ll feel normal again,” but what if I don’t want normal without them? What if I want them? I roll over and face the wall. I don’t cry today. I’m too tired for that. Today, I just carry the weight. Quietly. Alone.

--- end y/n's inner monologue --- Spencer peeked in the doorway around 10 a.m. “I made toast,” he said gently. “And tea. You should eat something.” She stared at the ceiling. He came closer. “Y/N?” Still nothing.

Her voice finally came, flat. “It doesn’t matter.” Spencer sat on the edge of the bed. “It does. You do.” Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I was supposed to be different by now. Stronger. Better.” “You’re grieving,” he said softly. “There’s no timeline for that.” She turned her head toward the window. “I feel like a shell. Like I’m watching my life from the outside.” Spencer reached for her hand. “Do you want me to stay here with you?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away. He took that as a yes. So he lay beside her, shoes still on, head on the pillow next to hers. For a long time, they just breathed. Eventually, her voice came again, barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to feel like this forever.” He looked at her, his eyes soft but resolute. “You won’t. Not forever. But until then… I’ll keep showing up. Even on the heavy days.” She blinked slowly, her eyes finally meeting his. “Okay.” And it wasn’t fixed. Nothing was. But it was a beginning.

Because that’s what grief is sometimes. A heavy kind of surviving.

Month Two. Spencer started therapy first. Y/N followed a week later. Progress was slow—measured in small victories: putting on jeans, making toast, laughing once at a dumb documentary he insisted she’d hate. She cried after, the smile so foreign it scared her. “I feel I’m not supposed to smile,” she said. “I’m supposed to be crying.” “You’re allowed to do both,” he told her. “Grief’s not a straight line.”

The room was warm, softly lit, and smelled faintly of bergamot. A bookshelf lined the far wall. Two armchairs sat side by side, facing the therapist. Spencer sat stiffly, fingers laced tightly in his lap. Y/N sat next to him, curled slightly into herself, wearing his cardigan like armor.

The therapist—Dr. Hale—gave them a soft smile. “There’s no pressure to say anything until you’re ready. This is just space.” Silence.

Y/N stared at the floor. Spencer glanced at her, then at the books, then down. Dr. Hale spoke again, gently. “Maybe we start with a simple question. What does grief feel like today?” Y/N was the one to answer. “Like waiting for something that won’t come back,” she said. Her voice was rough. “Like I’m supposed to be someone else right now… a mother. But I’m not.”

Spencer shifted beside her. “For me… it’s like static. In my head. I keep analyzing it—statistically, biologically. I know how common it is. I know we did nothing wrong. But none of it helps.” His voice cracked. “I still feel like I failed her.” Y/N’s hand twitched toward his. He reached out and gently held it. Dr. Hale nodded. “You're both carrying guilt. That’s normal, but it’s also heavy.” Y/N finally looked at Spencer. “I don’t want us to get stuck in this. In the silence.” “I don’t either,” he said. “But sometimes I don’t know what to say that won’t hurt you more.” “You don’t have to say anything.” She leaned against him. “Just stay.”

Spencer blinked fast. “Always.” Dr. Hale smiled softly. “That—right there—is the beginning.” And for the first time in weeks, they both exhaled at the same time.

The therapist supported Y/N’s idea to keep writting for the baby. She recommanded that they should write letters. A way to get out all the emotions that have been botteling up. Y/N wrote everyday a little, Spencer after every case he had.

From Y/N My sweet love, I don’t know where you are now. Maybe you were only meant to be a whisper in this world, a flicker of a heartbeat. But you were mine. Ours. And that makes you real. There were so many things I wanted to show you—sunlight through our bedroom window, the way your dad reads books like they hold the universe. I wanted to hold you on my chest and hum lullabies. I wanted to hear you laugh, cry, call me "mama." But instead, I am left with silence. I think of you every second. I wonder who you would’ve become. Your favorite song. The first book you would’ve loved. If your eyes would’ve looked like his. “I’m never gonna meet what could’ve been, would’ve been, what should’ve been you.”

I’ll never stop wondering. But I’ll never stop loving you either. You were, and always will be, ‘bigger than the whole sky.’

Love, Mom.

From Spencer Dear Little One, You never got to open your eyes, but I saw you clearly. In the curve of your mother’s smile. In the quiet hope I carried every time I read about fetal development and thought, “That’s happening in our baby right now.” ”You were more than just a short time.”

I don’t know what I believe about the afterlife. But I believe in love. And mine for you was immediate—unshakable. I wanted to read to you before bed. I wanted to show you stars, recite facts you’d roll your eyes at, take you to your first library. I dreamed of your first words and how they’d sound in our home. Instead, I carry those dreams in my chest. Quiet. Unfinished. Precious. I’m so sorry for not making it past the start, And all the things I’ll never know about you… I miss you. And I will, for the rest of my life. But I’m grateful I got to love you, even for a moment. You were the beginning of everything.

With all my heart, Dad.

It had been three months since they lost the baby. Spencer wore grief like an old sweater—familiar, stretched, and clinging to his frame even when he tried to forget he was still wearing it. The BAU had given him time. Morgan had told him to take longer. JJ had hugged him without saying a word. But eventually, he returned. Because what else was he supposed to do?

Work was his refuge. It always had been. Statistics didn’t cry. Autopsy reports didn’t ask how he was doing. But today’s case broke through the numbness.

A missing infant. Four months old. Taken from a crib in the middle of the night. No forced entry. Parents devastated. A pink knitted blanket left on the floor, slightly damp from where the mother’s tears had fallen. Spencer stood in the nursery, the crib still warm. He stared at the mobile spinning slowly above it, stuffed clouds and stars turning lazily in the air. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

He saw their nursery—the one he and Y/N had painted together, her laugh echoing off the walls as he got mint-green paint on his nose. The bassinet they'd ordered. The books he'd stacked in quiet anticipation. The tiny pair of socks she'd cried over in Target. He had to leave the room.

He made it through the rest of the day like a ghost. Went through the motions. Profiled. Analyzed. Helped find the baby alive, thank God. But that didn’t stop the breakdown. “I'm never gonna meet what could've been, would've been, what should've been you.”

It hit him on the drive home. Somewhere between a red light and a radio commercial, the world cracked open. He walked into their apartment, dropped his go-bag by the door, and saw her—curled on the couch in his oversized cardigan, the one she’d started wearing every night. Their eyes met. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Y/N stood slowly. “Rough case?” she asked, her voice small. “Baby,” he choked. “She was just four months. The parents—” His voice cracked. “—they looked like us.” She walked to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and he broke. His arms clung to her tightly, his face buried in her shoulder as the sobs came, harsh and shuddering. “I miss them so much,” he whispered. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They sank to the floor together, holding each other as the quiet surrounded them—no mobile spinning overhead, no baby monitor crackling, just the sound of their grief colliding and folding into love. Eventually, Y/N whispered, “We never got to hold them. But we carry them everywhere.”

Spencer nodded, forehead against hers. “Always. Bigger than the whole sky.”

Month four. They visited the cemetery on a rainy afternoon. The tiny plaque read only one word: "Loved." Y/N stood there for a long time. “What could’ve been, would’ve been,” she whispered. “What should’ve been you and us…” Spencer took her hand. “They were ours. Still are.” She nodded through the tears. “And I’ll miss them forever, like they were here forever.”

“Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”

Five months and thirteen days. That’s how long it had been since they lost the baby. Y/N counted in the quiet moments. Spencer counted in pages read and mornings survived.

They were both still healing. Some days were heavier than others. Today had been one of the quieter ones. It was raining softly, tapping against the windows like a lullaby. Spencer had made tea—chamomile for her, something stronger for himself—and they’d settled on the couch with an old worn blanket and no words. Y/N was flipping through a photo album—one they hadn’t touched since before. It was filled with small memories: messy hair and sleepy mornings, museum trips, random polaroids of their feet, Spencer asleep with a book open on his chest. She paused on one picture.

Spencer was holding a stuffed elephant at a bookstore, grinning awkwardly at the camera. In the background, she was visibly pregnant—only barely—but her smile was soft, eyes squinting with laughter.“I forgot about this,” she murmured, showing him the photo. He leaned in. “Oh,” he said, a soft chuckle catching in his throat. “You told me not to buy that elephant, said it was overpriced and weird-looking.” “You bought it anyway.” “I hid it in the closet like a criminal,” he said.

Y/N let out a small, surprised laugh. She hadn’t expected it—but it came easily, and for a moment, it felt real. Spencer looked at her like she’d just returned from a long, faraway place. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in… I don’t even know how long.” She blinked, then smiled again—tentative, but there. “It felt weird. Good. But weird.” He reached out, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “You can smile,” he said gently. “We’re allowed.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she was still smiling. “So are you.” He kissed her then, slow and tender. The elephant still sat on the shelf behind them, dusty but present—like grief, like love, like the baby they would always remember. Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside, just for a moment, there was light.

Month six. They planted a tree in the backyard. It wasn’t to forget. It was to remember without drowning. Y/N pressed her hand to the young bark. “This is for you,” she whispered. “For everything I’ll never get to know about you.” Later, she stood in the kitchen with Spencer, a hand resting over her heart. “It’s not better,” she said. “But… I’m still here.” He kissed her temple. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

One Year. They didn’t throw a party. Didn’t host anyone. They just sat together under the tree, arms around each other, Y/N’s head on his chest. As the breeze moved through the leaves, Y/N whispered one last time, “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye… You were bigger than the whole sky.” And in the quiet, Spencer whispered back, “And you always will be.”

#spotify #spencer reid #taylor swift #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #bau #taylor swift midnights

Blank Space.

Pairing: spencer reid x dark!y/n

Summary: It begins like a love story. But passion gives way to obsession, and what starts as a game turns deadly. As the chaos consumes y/n, love warps into control, ending in heartbreak, murder, and a final, fatal reunion. Along the lyrics of the song "Blank Space" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

a/n: TW she's crazy, stalking, murder.

You met Spencer Reid on a Wednesday, rain slicking the D.C. sidewalks, the kind of storm that promises something biblical.

"Nice to meet you," you said, breathless from the chase of the day, stepping beside him in a bookstore. "Where you been?"

He looked up from a leather-bound volume of Baudelaire, slow blink, tilt of the head—calculating. “Here. Avoiding people. You?”

“I could show you incredible things,” you purred, fingers dancing across the spine of a novel neither of you would buy. “Magic. Madness. Heaven. Sin.”

He chuckled under his breath. A challenge. “You sound like a warning label.”

“I am.” You leaned in. “But you’ll ignore it.”

And he did.

Spencer wasn't like the others. He was brilliant, awkward, cautious—exactly the kind of man who should have run the other way the second you leaned into his orbit.

But he didn’t.

“You look like my next mistake,” you told him on your third date, tracing the freckles on his cheekbone with your fingertip. “Love’s a game. Wanna play?”

He stared at you, equal parts fascinated and wary. “Games have rules,” he murmured.

“And breaking them is the best part.”

“And you love the game!”

The beginning was electric.

For weeks it was magic. Mornings tangled in sheets. Laughing over coffee. Nights spent chasing each other’s shadows, pressing secrets like kisses into each other's skin.

“I can read you like a magazine,” he told you one night, brushing your hair behind your ear, “but every time I think I’m on the last page, I find another chapter.”

“Ain’t it funny?” you whispered.“I know you heard about me.”

He nodded. “That you’re chaos incarnate. That you run before anyone gets too close.”

You smiled. “So hey, let’s be friends. I’m dying to see how this one ends.”

He kissed you like an answer.

You peeled him open layer by layer, each secret bleeding under your touch. Spencer was fire wrapped in intellect—cautious, gentle, with a gaze that saw everything and judged nothing.

You moved fast. The way you always did.

“Grab your passport and my hand,” you teased one night after just two weeks.“I can make the bad guys good for a weekend.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he said, “And when the weekend’s over?”

You kissed him, hard and quiet, like confession.

“Then we find another reason to stay.”

It wasn't long before your chaos started pulling at his seams.

He was used to structure. You were a storm with painted nails and a smile that promised ruin.

“You have a long list of ex-lovers,” he murmured one night, glancing at your phone lighting up with a name he didn’t recognize.“They’ll tell me you’re insane.”

You grinned, pouring more wine. “But I’ve got a blank space, baby. And I’ll write your name.”

He let you.

Soon, the sweetness turned sour.

He found texts. Half-lies. Emotional sabotage buried in late-night disappearances and lipstick that wasn’t the same shade from dinner.

"You're pushing me away," he whispered during one of the quiet wars between you.

“I’m giving you a way out,” you corrected.

He stayed.

Because for every moment of jealousy and fury, there was passion so violent it bordered on sacred. Stolen kisses, nails down backs, whispered apologies in tear-streaked bedsheets.

“You’re the king, baby. I’m your queen,” you murmured in his ear, kissing over bruises your fights left behind. “Find out what you want. I’ll be that girl for a month.”

“But then?” he asked.

You smiled like a knife.

“Then the worst is yet to come.”

It did. It came in slamming doors, raised voices, and you screaming things you didn’t mean—but also maybe did. "Screaming, crying, perfect storms."

He was silent when you cried. You were cold when he begged. You could see it breaking him. But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t love him—you needed to own him. And yet he came back. Every time. "But you'll come back each time you leave."

...

Until he didn’t.

One day, he left. Quietly. No drama. Just a note:

___________________________________________

It was worth the high. But I can’t keep dying for a dream.

—Spencer

___________________________________________

“You can tell me when it's over. If the high was worth the pain.”

You laughed when you read it. Laughed so hard you cried. Then you poured another drink, sat at your vanity, and stared into your reflection like it was a stranger. “This is how it always ends,” you whispered. “Boys only want love if it’s torture.” You picked up your red lipstick—your favorite weapon—and drew a heart on the mirror. But this time, no name inside. Just a blank space.

The days blurred together. Your apartment smelled like spilled wine and roses long since dead. You played the voicemail he left again and again—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it: calm, tired, like a man stepping off a train he never wanted to board.

You imagined him packing, methodical. Folding his shirts with clinical precision. Organizing books alphabetically. He wouldn’t have looked back. You hated him for that. And yet…

Nights stretched. You caught yourself rereading old texts, old photos, dissecting them like crime scene evidence. Did he know you were unraveling? Did he care? You dreamed of him. Feverish dreams—some tender, some cruel. In one, he reached for your hand. In another, he watched you drown and didn’t blink. But worst of all were the mornings. Still alive. Still empty.

--- FLASHBACK ---

Hotel room in Prague.

The world had shrunk to a dimly lit hotel room in Prague, draped in silk sheets and sin. You had been reckless—laughing too loud, kissing in doorways, daring the universe to stop you.

“Stolen kisses, pretty lies.”

“I’ve never done anything like this,” he confessed, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I know,” you whispered, hand tangled in his curls. “That’s why it matters.”

He traced the scar on your hip with his thumb. “Who hurt you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want to know what I’m up against.”

You smiled, cold and beautiful. “Everyone.”

“leave a nasty scar.”

--- FROM SPENCER'S JOURNAL (UNSENT) ---

She is everything I shouldn’t want. Dangerous. Addictive. I analyze her like a pattern, but there is no pattern. Just chaos, and beauty, and something inside her that reminds me of a burning cathedral. You shouldn’t look. But you do. “So it's gonna be forever. Or it's gonna go down in flames.” I think I love her. But I also think she’s going to destroy me.

--- NOW ---

You still wear the watch he gave you. It’s stopped ticking. You don’t fix it. There are men now. Others. Names you forget. Faces you never see again. But none of them are him. None of them ever will be. You read somewhere that obsession is just memory with teeth. Yours bites every night. You don’t cry anymore. You don’t scream. You just exist, haunted.

Because you were the fire.

But he was your match.

It starts with the photos.

You print out the old ones. Hang them around the bedroom like altars. Not just the posed ones—no. The candid ones. Him asleep on the train. Him smiling at something you said. Him reading in that damn armchair you made him bring over. You line your walls with moments he never agreed to memorialize.

Then, it moves to his habits.

You buy his shampoo. His brand of coffee. Start listening to classical music because he once told you Mozart helped him think. You memorize his lectures online. Subscribe to journals he’s published in. His voice in your head is clearer than your own.

The descent is quiet. Elegant.

You start showing up near Quantico. Once. Twice. Just in case. You say you’re passing through. You aren’t.

You learn the schedule of the coffee shop near the BAU. Sometimes, you sit by the window and imagine him walking in. He never does.

So you take it further. You find the bar the team goes to. Sit at the far end. Listen to their laughter. You keep your distance. At first. Until the night he walks in. And sees you.

His eyes go wide. Then shuttered. Like blinds snapping shut. He walks straight toward you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, voice low, sharp.

You sip your drink. Smile slow.

“Coincidence?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I miss you.”

His hands clench at his sides. “This isn’t love. It’s obsession.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you liked it once.”

He stares at you. So much pain in his eyes, it almost knocks you off your stool.

“Get help,” he says. And walks away.

"Cause, darling, I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream."

But you don’t. Because you’re already too far gone. And the thing about nightmares is—they don’t end when you wake up. They evolve.

You break into his apartment.

It’s not as hard as it should be. He never changed the lock. You don’t steal anything. Not at first. You sit on the edge of his bed, breathing in the familiar scent. You open drawers. You whisper his name. You take a tie. Just one. Silk. Plum-colored. You wrap it around your wrist and wear it for days.

Then you start calling from burner phones. You don’t speak. You just listen. Once, you think he knows it’s you—he whispers, “Please stop.” But you don’t. You start following him. Not close enough to be caught. Just enough to know where he goes. Who he sees. One day, you see him smile at a woman in a bookstore.

You go home and destroy everything in your apartment. Cut the photos. Burn the letters. Shatter every glass.

But it doesn’t help.

Because he’s still in your head.

Still under your skin.

So you write his name again. This time, on your wrist. In ink.

Next time, it might be blood.

It was supposed to be enough—watching him from a distance, stealing glimpses, holding on to fragments. But obsession, like fire, doesn’t stay contained.

It spreads.

You start tracing her patterns. The woman from the bookstore.

Kathy something. Teaches at Georgetown. Favors red lipstick and wears her keys on a ribbon around her wrist. You follow her once. Then again. You watch her from across the street, heart thudding with something that feels a lot like rage. One night, you trail her into a dim parking garage. You don’t speak. You just want to see what fear looks like on someone who doesn’t belong to him.

But when she turns around, you freeze.

She looks at you and smiles.

“Hey—are you lost?”

You blink. Her voice is kind.

You nod, murmur an apology, and walk away.

That was the last time she smiled.

“I get drunk on jealousy.”

It wasn’t premeditated. Not really. You just wanted to scare her.

Make her understand. So when she finds a photo in her mailbox—her and Spencer walking—she’s startled, but not broken. You escalate.

A dead dove on her windshield.

A pair of heels—hers—stolen from her apartment and left on her porch, muddy and scuffed.

Still, she doesn’t leave him. You dream of choking her.

It happens fast.

Rain. Her umbrella flips inside out. You’re already outside, pretending to fumble with your phone. She’s rushing. Distracted. You follow her into a stairwell. No cameras. Just you and the sound of dripping water.

You call her name.

She turns, confused.

You shove her.

It’s not a hard push. Just enough to make her stumble. Just enough to make her afraid.

She screams.

You panic.

You lunge.

The fight is messy. Hair, nails, muffled sobs. She scratches your face. You smell blood and perfume. You press her throat until her nails stop digging.

When it’s over, you’re crying.

You didn’t mean to kill her.

But her body is warm, slack, and still.

To make sure Spencer would find her, you left some hints behind. A chess piece, a deck of cards with his favorite one missing and a business card from his drycleaners.

You sit beside her and whisper apologies.

Then you run.

The BAU is called in. You watch the news in a motel room two towns over. Spencer’s face on the screen. Haunted. He doesn’t know it was you.

Not yet.

But he will. And when he does, maybe—just maybe—he’ll understand. Because you killed for him. That has to mean something.

--- SPENCER’S POV ---

He should’ve seen it coming.

The signs. The obsession. The slow spiral.

But part of him refused to believe it. Refused to believe you were capable of something like this. Then Hotch shows him the surveillance footage from a nearby shop. Blurry, but unmistakable.

Your face.

A ghost in the frame.

His hands tremble. He excuses himself. He goes home and finds the tie missing from his drawer. And under his pillow—a single note, scrawled in lipstick:

You belong to me.

You're already gone by the time they trace your motel. You change your name. Cut your hair. Bleach your clothes in motel bathtubs. You blend, but not well.

Because inside, you’re unraveling.

You still hear his voice. Still see his hands. Still imagine his arms around you, whispering forgiveness. You call him again. This time, you speak.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t hang up.

He says, “Please. Turn yourself in.”

You laugh, bitter and broken.

“Would you visit me?”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

Something inside you dies.

You find him again, months later. Alone. A stormy night. Just like the beginning. He’s walking home. Coat soaked. Tired. You step out of the shadows.

He freezes.

His voice is raw. “Don’t.”

“Don't say I didn't, say I didn't warn ya.”

You smile.

“I just wanted to see you one last time.”

He looks at you the way you always feared he would.

Like a stranger.

“I loved you,” you say.

“No,” he replies, shaking. “You destroyed me.”

You nod.

Then you raise the gun.

#Spotify #taylor swift #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #1989 taylor's version #spencer x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x unsub!reader #spencer reid dark fic #BAU

Welcome To New York

Pairing : spencer reid x y/n!reader

Summary : New job, new apartment and all alone. New York isn't what y/n hoped it was. Hopefully Spencer's arrival changes that. Along the lyrics of the song "Welcome To New York" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

Manhattan, post-BAU transition.

You don’t cry until the door clicks shut behind you.

The apartment is empty. Quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful, just echoing. Your boxes are stacked along the wall, half-unpacked. There’s no furniture yet, except for the mattress the delivery guys left wrapped in plastic.

Outside the city roars—sirens, traffic, someone shouting on the street below. Inside, the only thing you hear is your own heart, thudding hard in your chest like it's trying to keep up.

“Don’t look back,” you whisper, like saying it aloud will make it true. “Welcome to New York, welcome to New York.”

New York is supposed to be the start of everything. A clean slate. The job is good. Better, even. It pays more. Gives you space from the BAU and all its ghosts. But it also means leaving him behind.

Spencer.

You’d told him not to make a big deal about it. You were leaving, not dying. You didn’t expect a dramatic goodbye. You didn’t want one. But a part of you—petty, secret, hopeful—had still waited for him to stop you.

He hadn’t.

Not even a text.

“Everybody here wanted somethin' more.”

You lie back on the mattress and stare at the ceiling, your heart a tight fist in your chest. It shouldn’t hurt this much. You’d never been anything official. Never said the words. Never kissed.

But God, you’d felt everything. In his eyes. In the silences. In the way he always found you after a bad case and offered you coffee exactly the way you liked it.

Maybe it was always easier for him to stay in the safety of maybe. You just hadn’t realized how far apart maybe and Manhattan really were

Three days later, it’s raining.

The kind of steady, soaking rain that makes the entire city look like it’s being rinsed of color. You’re soaked halfway to your knees from running errands. You fumble with your keys, cursing under your breath, when a voice behind you says:

“Y/N?”

Your body freezes.

That voice could carve itself into stone and you’d still recognize it.

You turn slowly.

He’s standing at the edge of the steps, hair wet, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for your reaction.

“Spencer?” You blink. “What—what are you doing here?”

He looks up at you, that soft, searching expression you know too well. “I got the offer. NYPD wants me as a consultant for their serial crimes unit. I took it.”

You stare at him. Your heart, which had just started learning how to beat normally again, is now doing cartwheels.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t know if I’d go through with it,” he admits, stepping closer. “But then you left. And everything in D.C. felt…wrong. Like the city was missing something.”

You want to scream. You want to hug him. You don’t do either.

Instead, you say, “It’s a big city. You really think you can just show up and—what? Pick up where we left off?”

Spencer flinches. “No,” he says quietly. “I think I missed my chance. But I still had to try.”

The rain blurs your vision, or maybe that’s just your eyes. You press your lips together, willing yourself to stay steady.

“This city’s not like D.C., Spencer. It moves fast. It doesn’t wait for anyone.”

“I know.” He swallows. “But I think it’s been waiting for you. I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Welcome to New York, it’s been waiting for you.

You should be angry. And you are. But underneath it all, there’s something warm. Something reckless. Something brave.

You nod toward the apartment door. “I have no furniture yet. Just a mattress and an unopened bottle of red wine.”

A small, hopeful smile curls at his lips. “Perfect. I brought Thai.”

Later, after you’ve dried off and shared the wine, you both sit on the mattress, cross-legged, takeout containers between you.

The mood is lighter, but fragile.

He glances at you. “You know I wanted to say something before you left. I just… I froze.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I noticed.”

Silence stretches for a beat, then another. Rain taps against the window like it’s keeping time.

“I thought about you every day,” he says. “I didn’t think I could handle losing you, but I was scared I’d ruin it if I said too much.”

You look at him—really look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from tears, but from everything he’s been holding back.

“You didn’t lose me,” you say gently. “But I needed to know I wasn’t the only one who wanted this.”

“I do.” His voice cracks. “God, I do.”

"Everybody here was someone else before."

You lean back on your hands, watching the way the streetlight catches on his jaw.

“I’m not the same here,” you murmur. “This city—it changes you.”

He shifts closer. “Then let’s change together.”

For a second, nothing moves. Then you close the space between you.

The kiss is soft. Careful. Like opening a book you’ve been afraid to read the ending of. But it deepens with every second, all the unsaid words and long looks and held breaths finally unraveling.

When you part, forehead pressed to his, he whispers, “You feel like home.”

You close your eyes, smile against his skin.

And outside, the city pulses, bright and indifferent and endlessly alive.

New York moves like it doesn’t care if you can keep up.

It honks at you when you hesitate at a crosswalk. It overcharges for everything. It smells like coffee, ambition, and wet pavement. It’s intoxicating—and exhausting.

You and Spencer are learning how to find stillness inside the chaos.

Your mornings start with coffee on the fire escape—one of those tiny, rusting ledges barely wide enough for two people, but perfect for watching the world spin below. It’s become your ritual: you with your knees pulled to your chest, him thumbing through a book he already knows by heart.

The first time he spent the night, you found a folded piece of notebook paper tucked under your tea mug. His handwriting was careful, slanted, nervous.

_________________________________________

“You are the best thing that's ever been mine.”

I never thought I’d be here. With you.

—your love, Spencer.

__________________________________________

You kept the note.

Sometimes love arrives quietly. Like footsteps up the stairs. Like Thai takeout and soft-spoken apologies. Like someone choosing you, again and again, despite the noise.

One Friday night, you pull him toward the subway, fingers laced, hearts thudding in sync with the rumble of the train.

“Come on,” you grin. “You’ve never seen Times Square at midnight.”

“Walking through a crowd, the village is aglow. Kaleidoscope of loud, heartbeats under coats.”

“I’ve read that it’s a sensory overload nightmare,” he deadpans.

“That’s the point.”

You burst above ground into electric chaos. Neon lights. Street performers. Glitter. The buzz of humanity at full volume. “The lights are so bright, but they never blind me.”

He blinks against the color and motion, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“Like any great love, it keeps you guessing. Like any real love, it’s ever-changing.”

You tug him into the center of the crowd, arms stretched out. “This is what starting over feels like.”

He watches you, not the lights. “You’re not starting over,” he says. “You’re becoming.”

It’s unfair, the way he says things like that. Like he sees all the versions of you that even you haven’t met yet.

You step closer, the city reflected in his glasses. “It’s different now,” you whisper. “Us. Me.”

Spencer nods, brushing a strand of hair from your face with infinite care. “Different can be good.”

“When we first dropped our bags on apartment floors.”

Back at your apartment, the windows are open. Sirens wail faintly in the distance, and the streetlight spills soft gold across the floor.

You’re sitting across from each other on your mattress (still on the floor), surrounded by unpacked books and a half-eaten container of lo mein.

Spencer looks up from the open case file beside him. “Do you ever regret it?”

You blink. “Moving here?”

“No. Letting me in.”

The question hits you harder than you expect. He’s not asking lightly. He never does.

You set your chopsticks down, leaning forward. “Do you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he flips the page of the file, then closes it carefully. Looks up.

“I used to think love was supposed to be neat,” he says. “Predictable. Logical. But this—us—it’s messy and complicated and sometimes terrifying. And still…”

You hold your breath.

“I wake up every morning and I choose you,” he finishes, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.”

You reach for his hand. “That’s what love is, Spencer.”

“Like any true love, it drives you crazy. But you know you wouldn't change anything.”

_________________________________

The next week, you find an apartment listing on the Upper West Side. It’s laughably expensive and full of quirks: warped floorboards, ancient radiator, an actual clawfoot tub.

You show it to Spencer over coffee.

He studies the photos, then you. “You’re thinking of moving?”

“Thinking of… us,” you say, hesitating. “What if we tried something new? Together?”

His brows lift. “You mean…”

You nod. “What if we stopped pretending this isn’t real? What if we just—did the thing?”

He swallows. “You and me, one apartment, New York?”

Your smile is quiet. “One soundtrack, new beat.”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s trying to memorize your face.

Then he says, “Let’s do it.”

_________________________________

“It's a new soundtrack, I could dance to this beat, beat forevermore.”

Weeks pass in a blur of cardboard boxes and playlists and shared groceries. You argue about where the books should go. You laugh about the oven that only works on broil. You build a home out of mismatched mugs and a tiny potted basil plant.

And on the nights when the weight of the city feels too much, when the sirens are too loud or the loneliness creeps in—even with him beside you—you remind yourself:

You and Spencer were never supposed to fit. Logic said it couldn’t work. Distance said it shouldn’t. But here you are—him with his overfolded socks in your dresser drawer, you with your toothbrush beside his.

The city doesn’t slow down, but you’ve learned how to move with it. Together.

_________________________________

One night, you’re curled up on the couch, rain tapping on the window. He’s reading something scientific, but his fingers are playing with the hem of your sweatshirt absentmindedly.

You glance up. “Do you still feel like this place is too much?”

Spencer looks at you, glasses sliding a little down his nose. “The city?”

You nod.

He smiles. “No. Not with you here.”

“It’s been waiting for you.”

#Spotify #taylor swift #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #1989 taylor's version #spencer x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #mgg #matthew gray gubler #fluff #welcome to new york #welcome to new york TV

nereidprinc3ss

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked.

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static.

This Love.

Pairing: spencer reid x y/n!reader

Summary: After two years apart, former BAU profiler y/n returns to Quantico for a temporary consult, only to find the feelings she buried never truly left. What begins as a professional reunion soon unearths the love they both tried to move on from. Some distances can’t break a bond this deep. Some love just waits… until you’re both ready to find your way back. Along the lyrics of the song "This Love" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

You never thought you'd find yourself back in Quantico. The air smells the same—clinical, laced with bitter coffee and fluorescent lights. But your heart pounds a little harder today, and it has nothing to do with profiling or paperwork. everything feels different. Still. Suspended in time.

It has everything to do with him.

Spencer Reid.

It had been two years. Two years since you walked away from the BAU, from Spencer. And though you tried to convince yourself that leaving had been the right choice, a quiet ache had settled into your chest. Sometimes, you found yourself walking through life, your mind racing, but your heart still tethered to him. No matter how far you went, no matter how many different cities you tried to escape to, you could never outrun this love.

You hadn’t spoken in months. Not since you left, not since you packed your things on a rainy tuseday. “Skies grew darker.” With trembling hands and whispered goodbye under your breath. And you’d barely met Spencer’s eyes. He hadn’t said much. Just a quiet, “If you ever need anything…” and then silence.

And that silence haunted you.

Because you had needed something. You needed him to ask you to stay.

But he didn’t. He hadn’t fought you on it. That hurt the most. You told yourself it was better that way—clean, quick, a surgical cut.

But love doesn’t work like that.

Not when it’s Spencer. Not when you’ve memorized the rhythm of his voice as he recited poetry in the quiet dark. Not when your last night together still plays like a movie reel in your mind—his hand on your back, the ghost of an apology on his lips, “Your kiss, my cheek.”, your tears on his shirt. "This love left a permanent mark."

Now here you were, back at the BAU—just a temporary consult for a case with overlapping psychological components. Hotch had asked you personally. You almost said no. But then you thought of Spencer. Of the what-ifs. Of the ache that hadn’t dulled, no matter how many cities you ran to.

“y/n y/l/n,” Hotch greets, professional as ever. Spencer turns. His eyes land on yours. Your heart forgets how to beat.

“Clear blue water. High tide came and brought you in.”

Spencer turns, his eyes widened when he saw you, like you were a ghost from his past, and in a way, you were. You swallowed, fighting the wave of emotion that rose in your chest. “My ghost.”

He looks… the same. Just a little more tired. His hair’s longer. His tie is crooked. But his eyes—they hold that same depth. That ocean of thought and memory and pain.

“y/n…” His voice was low, almost as if he didn’t believe his own words. He stepped forward, hesitating just for a moment, as though unsure whether he should approach or let you walk away.

You stood frozen, your heart racing, the weight of two years pressing down on your shoulders.

“Hey, Spencer,” you manage, your voice steady despite the storm inside.

You had walked away. You had left him behind, thinking it was the only way to save yourself. But now, standing in front of him, you realized it had never been the right choice.

You couldn’t run from him. Not then. Not now. Yu don’t want to run anymore.

No one mentions the tension. No one needs to. The remain team memebers leave the conference room. Giving the two of you the privacy to talk.

In those two years, you’d tried so hard to move on, to forget him. But it never worked. Every time you met someone new, it was a pale imitation of what you had with Spencer. The ache for Spencer crept back into your chest. The empty spaces between you and those other people felt too wide. Too shallow. “Struggled through the night with someone new.”

You thought about him constantly, even when you didn’t want to. In the quiet moments, when you weren’t distracted by the noise of the world, his face appeared in your mind. And when you woke up at night, tangled in sheets, it was his absence that haunted you.

“Currents swept you out again. And you were just gone and gone, gone and gone.”

You had been swept out by the current of life, and the harder you tried to swim, the farther you got from him. But here, in this moment, with him standing in front of you, you could feel that tide pulling you back in. And suddenly, it felt like the years of distance between you had never existed.

You stared at him, heart pounding. Your mouth went dry. You hadn’t prepared for this. You hadn’t prepared for him. You had expected to see him again, just not prepared enough.

“You…” You tried to find your voice, but it was lost somewhere deep inside of you. “You’re still… here.”

“I never left,” Spencer said softly, his gaze never leaving yours. His voice was thick with unspoken emotion. “I never stopped thinking about you, y/n. Not once.”

You felt your chest tighten. The words you’d kept hidden for so long—the words you never thought you’d be able to say again—pushed their way to the surface.

“Neither did I,” you whispered.

“This love is good. This love is bad.”

He stepped closer, the distance between you closing with each step. His eyes softened, full of something deep and unspoken, something you had left behind long ago. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to face again. But when he reached out to touch your arm, you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

“This love is alive back from the dead,” you whispered, almost to yourself. The truth of it settled into your bones. “Even after everything. Even after we…” You couldn’t finish the sentence. It hurt too much.

He shook his head, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “I didn’t think it could come back. But… it has.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, letting the overwhelming sensation of him flood your senses. The sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand, the quiet way he seemed to see you—it all hit you like a wave crashing against the shore.

There had been so much pain. So many reasons you’d had to let go, to walk away. You hadn’t known how to love him without losing yourself, and in the end, you’d chosen yourself. But now, standing here, it felt like that wasn’t the right choice after all.

“Spencer,” you began, your voice shaking, “I left because I thought it would be easier. I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was wrong.” “These hands had to let it go free.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I know. I thought you needed space. I thought you needed freedom from all of this.” He motioned vaguely between the two of you. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop loving you. Not then. Not now.” “And this love came back to me, oh, oh, oh.”

You looked down at your hands, still holding his, still tethered to him in this strange, impossible way.

And suddenly, it all felt so clear. You had let him go—had set him free—but now, it was like the universe had brought you back together, despite everything. Unable to stop orbiting around eachother.

It was hard to breathe, to think, but one thing was certain: this love, your love, had always been there. Waiting.

The night before the reunion you found yourself lying awake in bed at night, “Tossing, turning.”, wondering where he was, what he was doing. In the darkness, your mind kept replaying the quiet moments, the way his hand had fit into yours, the way his eyes always seemed to see the truth of who you were.

And now, as you stood before him, you could feel that same ache. But it wasn’t a wound anymore. It was a spark. “Lantern, burning. Flickered in the night, only you.”

You could feel it now, the warmth of him beside you, the fire of his presence that burned brighter than anything else in your life. Even in the dark, you knew that light was never really gone.

“In losing grip, on sinking ships. You showed up just in time.”

The years apart had been like trying to

hold onto something that was slipping away, like trying to hold onto a sinking ship. But you hadn’t drowned. Not yet. Because, in the end, he had come back to you. Just in time.

Spencer’s fingers brushed against your cheek, the softest touch. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promised, feeling your heart finally settle back into its place. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“This love is alive back from the dead, oh, oh, oh.”

The weeks after that meeting were a slow return to what you had once shared. Things didn’t magically heal. There were still scars, both old and new. The silence between you sometimes felt too loud, the words not coming as easily as they had before. But each day, each moment you spent with him, brought you back to life in a way you hadn’t expected.

This love—your love—had always been too big for the both of you. Too much for either of you to handle alone. But somehow, together, you made it work.

There were nights when you tossed and turned, struggling with the past, struggling with the mistakes you both had made. But then, there were moments like this—like now—when everything felt right again.

You were sitting on the couch in his apartment, his hand resting on yours. The TV played quietly in the background, but neither of you was watching. The weight of everything you hadn’t said hung in the air, but somehow, it wasn’t so heavy anymore.

Spencer turned to you, his gaze soft, and he smiled. It was the kind of smile that made your heart skip a beat. “You know,” he said softly, “I never thought this would happen again. But I’m glad it did.”

You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling

something warm bloom inside your chest. “Me too.”

“In silent screams. In wildest dreams. I never dreamed of this.”

His fingers tightened around yours, and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to run. You didn’t feel the fear of losing him again.

"This love," you whispered, "came back to me."

Spencer’s eyes softened. “It never really left, did it?”

You shook your head. “No. It didn’t.”

His lips found yours in a kiss that was slow and tender, a promise that no matter how many waves tried to pull you under, no matter how many times you’d been swept away, this love—your love—was still alive. Still burning. And no matter what happened, you both knew it was worth fighting for.

In this moment, as Spencer held you in his arms again, you knew one thing for sure: this love had never truly left. It had simply been waiting, patiently, for the time when you were both ready to try again.

“This love is glowing in the dark.”

And as you kissed him, everything felt like it was falling into place. The past didn’t matter anymore, because the future—your future—was now. This love had found its way back to you, and it was shining brighter than ever.

His name was a prayer on your lips, the word you’d said a thousand times, but now it felt heavier than it ever had before. “I need you.”

His face softened, his lips curling into a smile, and he stepped closer, his body almost pressed against yours. “You have me,” he whispered. “Always.”

He leaned down, his lips finding your neck, brushing against the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran down your spine at the feel of him, his breath hot against your skin.

You closed your eyes, your hands resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your fingers. Your lips found his, tentative at first, but the kiss quickly deepened, igniting a fire you’d both buried for so long. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, pressing your body against his.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, a languid dance that was all too familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. You could taste the ache in his kiss, the hunger, the relief of finally being close to each other again.

His hands moved to your back, gently guiding you to laydown on the couch. He pulled away just long enough to take a breath, his gaze flickering over your face. “Are you sure about this?” he asked softly, his voice rough with desire.

You nodded, your heart thundering in your chest. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

The room faded away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the rhythm of his breath against your skin. You were tangled together on the couch, limbs interwoven like roots reuniting beneath the surface after a long drought. His hands moved slowly, reverently, learning you again with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, with an urgency that left you breathless. His hands roamed to your shoulders, slipping the straps of your dress down your arms, his fingertips tracing the smooth skin of your collarbone.

You could feel the heat rising between you, the connection that was always there, never truly gone. It was as if no time had passed. As if this had always been meant to happen.

His hands, though gentle, were insistent, pulling you closer, guiding you until you were both tangled up in each other, the soft fabric of your dress slipping away. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only Spencer, only the feeling of his lips, his skin, his touch.

You gasped as he kissed the hollow of your throat, the curve of your shoulder, his breath uneven. “I missed you,” he murmured, the words catching on his lips like a confession. “Every day.”

Your fingers slid through his hair, anchoring him to you, grounding yourself in the sensation of him—real, present, and finally yours again. “I missed you too,” you whispered. “So much it hurt.”

His hands moving lower, exploring the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs. His touch was tender, but there was a fire in it that you couldn’t ignore. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt your body responding to him in ways you hadn’t allowed it to in so long.

When he pulled away, just enough to look into your eyes, the raw emotion there took your breath away. His voice was a whisper, but it held so much weight. “I’m not letting you go again, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your hands found his, pulling him back to you as you kissed him with all the intensity you’d buried for so long.

Your dress fell away like the years between you, and his shirt followed, both of you shedding the weight of the past with every quiet breath. His skin against yours was warmth, was safety. It was everything you’d been longing for and everything you’d feared you’d never find again.

His lips trailed down your chest, and you arched into him, your breath quickening. He was everywhere—his hands, his lips, his scent—and you wanted him closer, needed him closer.

The space between you vanished completely as he kissed you again—slower now, savoring each second. There was no rush. No urgency. Just this moment, the rediscovery of a love that had waited patiently beneath the surface.

The passion was overwhelming, but it was tempered with a tenderness that made your heart ache. Every touch felt like it was healing something inside of you, something broken that you didn’t even realize was still there.

As his lips returned to yours, everything felt right. This love, your love, had never truly been gone. It had been waiting for both of you, hidden in the darkness, waiting to return.

And now, as his body pressed against yours, the world outside faded. There was only this love. A love that would never leave.

“And this love came back to me, oh, oh, oh.”

His hands moved with care, drawing soft sighs from your lips, as if he were tracing the outline of your memories together, stitching the years apart back into place with every touch.

You felt yourself open beneath him, not just your body, but your heart—the part of you that had stayed locked away for so long. And when he looked down at you, eyes full of emotion, full of you, it felt like the universe had finally stopped spinning.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “You always were.”

What happened next wasn’t just physical. It was a quiet reclamation of something sacred. A merging of past and present, of pain and promise. The ache of longing gave way to something deeper—an intimacy not just of the body, but of the soul.

When it was over, you lay together in the quiet, the soft hum of the city beyond the windows a distant murmur. His arms wrapped around you, steady and sure. Your head rested against his chest, listening to the heartbeat you’d tried so hard to forget, only to realize you never could.

And in that silence, neither of you needed to speak. The warmth of his embrace said everything:

You had found your way back.You were home.

This love—your love—had come back to life. And no matter how many storms you’d weathered, no matter how many times you’d been pulled away, you would never let it go again.

“When you're young, you just run. But you come back to what you need.”

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Bejeweled

Pairing : spencer reid x bau!reader

Summary : y/n finally breaks up with her boyfriend. He caused her to dim her light. Now single and feeling great, she goes to the FBI’s annual gala. Where she has her bejeweled moment and dances with Spencer. Maybe he will stay the night with her? Along the lyrics of the song "Bejeweled" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

You used to dim your light for him. Not on purpose—not really. It was more subtle, like the way the moon fades a bit when clouds pass by. You didn’t stop being you. You just got…quieter. Less “bejeweled,” as your best friend had so perfectly put it one evening over wine.

“You used to shine,” she said, swirling her glass with a pitying tilt of her head. “You were diamonds. Lately, you’re costume jewelry. Cheap stuff. Plastic. Why?”

You didn’t answer her. You didn’t want to say that the reason you’d dulled yourself was you (insecure) boyfiend—or more accurately, the way his behaviour made you feel around him. It wasn’t your fault, not really. You felt trapped and his promises made you feel better momentaraly. The man was brilliant, soft-spoken, and kind when he wanted to.

"Baby love, I think I've been a little too kind."

The clock ticks. Rain hums outside. You stands in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around her. James lounges on the couch like he’s already over the conversation.

y/n quietly said, with silent tears in her eyes “I just want to talk about what happened at the party. You completely ignored me all night, and when I tried to say something, you laughed in my face.”

“Jesus, you’re still on that?”James answered her, without looking up.

“Yes. Because it hurt. And you still haven’t acknowledged it.”

He sighs dramatically before speaking. “You’re too sensitive. I was talking to people. Networking. You want me glued to your hip all night like a child?”

y/n, shocked by his reaction, trying tos peak calmly. “I never said that. I just wanted to feel like I existed to you.”

James let out a big laugh, still not looking at her. “Wow. Drama queen much?”

A frown appeared on y/n’s face.“Why do you always do that? Make fun of me when I try to be honest?”

“Because you're always making up these stories in your head. You twist everything into some attack. It’s exhausting.” James tells her, fort he first time looking up from his phone.

"Sadness became my whole sky."

“I’m not making anything up,” she said, voice firm but shaking slightly. “I’m telling you how I feel.”

He crossed his arms, his tone turning cold. “No, you’re making a scene out of nothing. Again. You do this all the time — create problems that don’t exist just so you can play the victim.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare call me the victim. I’ve put up with your gaslighting for months, and I’ve tried to make this work.”

He let out a laugh, dripping with mock innocence. “Gaslighting? Oh my god. You really think you’re being abused just because I don’t agree with your little fantasy version of things?”

“It’s not a fantasy when I live it every day,” she snapped. “You lie. You deflect. You deny things that I know happened. I bring up real issues and you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“BECAUSE YOU ARE ACTING CRAZY RIGHT NOW!” he shouted, voice booming. “You’re blowing everything out of proportion! You always do this when you don’t get your way!”

"Baby boy, I think I've been too good of a girl."

Y/N spoke calmly, almost too calm. Like she was used tot his type of reaction. “And now you’re screaming. Again. Like that’s gonna fix anything.”

“I’m screaming because YOU DON’T LISTEN!”

The sound of bruising knuckles echos throught the living room as James slams his fist into the wall.

“I’m fcking drowning here trying to keep this together, and you just—walk away from everything like it's nothing!”*

She stepped back, her expression unreadable. “Wow. There it is. I finally see it. You don’t love me — you just love having someone to blame everything on.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore. Every conversation turns into a fight.”

He threw his hands up, frustrated. “Because you keep picking at me! Every little thing I do becomes a problem.”

“I’m not picking,” she said sharply. “I’m asking for basic respect. Like not disappearing for two days and then acting like it’s completely normal.”

He fell silent for a beat. His chest rose and fell, shallow and fast. His jaw clenched. There was rage in his eyes — but something else too. Desperation. Fear.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re emotional and paranoid, like always. Go take a walk or something. You’ll come back and realize you’re overreacting.”

She stared at him, calm and certain now. “No. I’m not coming back.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You say that every time. You’ll be texting me by morning.”

“Not this time,” she said, voice soft but solid as stone. “I finally believe myself more than I believe you.”

She grabbed her keys. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her hands didn’t shake. He didn’t move. Just sat there, watching her like he still expected her to sit back down.

“So what,” he said bitterly, “you’re just gonna walk out like everyone else? Coward.”

Y/N with a deep sadness in her voice, but staying strong. “No. It takes strength to walk away from someone you love who keeps hurting you. You want to scream and blame me? Fine. Scream into an empty room.”

She grabs her coat from the hook, hands trembling.

James voice breaking as he realised that this time she’s serieus about leaving him

“y/n… wait. Please

After a silence that lasted no more then five seconds, his anger came roaring back.

“You’re nothing without me.” He muttered.

As y/n paused in the doorway, she said, in a low, final tone “I was nothing with you.”

“No, wait—y/n, don’t do this. Don’t you dare—”

She shuts the door behind her. And for once — she doesn’t look back.

"And by the way, I'm going out tonight."

The whole team knew of your difficult relationship with him. They offered their help and advise, but you didn't want to hear it back then. You told them little lies, about how you two were doing better now and that they didn't have to worry.

"Didn't notice you walking all over my peace of mind."

But Spencer had a knack for seeing through things—especially you.

Spencer saw how hard you tried. How often you dressed up, hoping maybe one day your boyfriend would notice how great you actually were. You were always just a friend. A teammate. The girl he wanted to ask for dinner, but was too afraid.

But tonight was going to be different. after a short screaming match, only him. You officially broke up with him, now he's just one of your exes. No longer a man that slowly started to break you down.

Tonight was for you.

You slipped on the dress you’d buried in the back of your closet. The one that shimmered like starlight and hugged you like it missed you. You painted your lips red and lined your eyes with defiance. You slid on heels that clicked like a warning.

You were going to the FBI’s annual gala looking like the woman you had once been before you started hiding behind subtle smiles and quiet loyalty.

You were going to sparkle.

''Best believe I'm still bejeweled."

"When I walk in the room, I can still make the whole place shimmer."

The room was full of light—chandeliers glittered overhead, and the BAU looked stunning in tuxes and gowns. You caught JJ’s eye first. Her jaw dropped. “Y/N…you look incredible.”

You smiled. “I know.”

"What's a girl gonna do? A diamond's gotta shine."

Confidence wasn’t cocky. It was truth. And you had earned the right to own it.

You passed by Hotch, Rossi, even Morgan, all of whom gave you compliments or double-takes. And then, finally, you saw him.

Spencer.

He was at the bar, nervously twirling a glass of soda water in his hand, wearing a deep navy suit that made his brown eyes darker, more intense. His tie was crooked, of course. You always liked that about him.

He turned—and stopped.

His eyes widened.

“Y/N…” His voice was soft, almost reverent. “You look…”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curved. “Bejeweled?”

"I can reclaim the land."

He blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled, and it was slow, shy, and so Spencer it almost hurt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly that.”

But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

You walked past him, hips swaying to the rhythm of your own self-worth, giving him a wink as you grabbed a glass of champagne. You chatted with Luke, laughed at one of Penelope’s wild stories, danced with Morgan to a song that had too much bass and not enough subtlety. You lit up the room.

The music pulses through the floor, low and heady. Colored lights spin lazily over a packed dance floor. You’re standing by the bar, laughing at something Penelope said, when two guys, agents from a different branch, approach — confident, smooth, probably a little too charming for their own good.

One leans in with a grin. “You look like you’re having a boring night. Wanna change that?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Depends on your definition of fun.”

The other nudges his friend. “We’re not bad dancers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You glance toward the dance floor.

So you smile. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The music shifts to something sultry, bass-heavy. They’re decent dancers, easygoing, clearly trying to impress. One twirls you around. The other steps in too close, then laughs it off. You laugh with them,

"And when I meet the band. They ask, "Do you have a man?" I can still say, "I don't remember"

And Spencer watched.

It wasn’t until the fourth song in—a slow, sparkling tune that sounded like it had been written by stars—that he approached you.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

You hesitated, just long enough for him to worry, then took it.

"And we're dancin' all night."

His touch was tentative. But his eyes? They were clear. Finally seeing you. "Diamonds in my eyes."

“You know,” he murmured, swaying with you, “I think I’ve been waiting for too long.”

You tilted your head. “You think?”

“I’ve always known you were beautiful,” he said honestly. “But tonight… I see a version of you i have missed for so long. The real you, the one who shines. A friend told me to stop hiding from my feelings.”

And you smiled. Because you weren’t doing this for your now ex-boyfriend. Not anymore. But for yourself. It felt good to be seen again. And it felt right that it was him.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” you said.

“I know,” he replied, and his voice cracked just slightly. “But if you’ll let me…I’d like to start making up for that. One dance at a time.”

You let your head rest against his chest, just for a moment.

Because tonight, you were glowing.

Not for anyone else.

Just for you.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d let him bask in the light too.

The car ride back to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward—just thick with unspoken things. Spencer sat beside you in the backseat of the Bureau-issued black car, his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you saw him. You always saw him. The difference now? He knew it.

When you reached your place, you expected him to say goodnight. But when you turned to do the goodbye-smile thing, he just said:

“Can I come up? Just for a little while?” "And you can try to change my mind."

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But you weren’t sure if your heart could handle Spencer Reid in your space, with his hands maybe brushing yours, with that look in his eyes that said this is new, but I’m not going to pretend anymore.

But you nodded.

Upstairs, you kicked off your heels and dropped your clutch on the entry table. Spencer lingered in the doorway until you waved him in, watching him as he scanned the apartment with those observant eyes. He took everything in—your books, the throw blanket on your couch, the framed photo of the team—but it was you he looked at the longest.

You moved to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses of wine. When you turned back, he was closer. Not touching. But closer.

“You’re still glowing,” he said softly. “Even in this light.”

"I polish up real, I polish up real nice."

You let out a breathy laugh, taking a sip of wine to steady your nerves. “It’s just makeup and good lighting.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, setting his untouched glass down. “It’s you. It always has been.”

"Sapphire tears on my face."

Your eyes met his. He didn’t flinch away this time.

“I feel like I missed out on you,” he continued. “Like you dissapeared and I didn't know how to help and I… I was too wrapped up in my own head.”

You walked toward him slowly, standing close enough to smell the faint scent of cologne and vintage paper—Spencer always smelled like old books and warmth.

“You didn’t miss it,” you said. “I was just hiding.”

He looked down at you, hands still at his sides, every inch of him buzzing with restraint.

“You don’t have to hide anymore.”

You reached up, fingers grazing his tie to straighten it—a habit you’d always wanted an excuse for. “So what now, Spencer?”

His breath hitched. “Now I stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Then he kissed you.

It was slow at first—hesitant, testing. Like he didn’t believe you’d kiss him back. But you did. And then you did again, deeper this time, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he groaned against your mouth.

He backed you into the wall, hands cupping your face like you were a piece of something sacred. It was messy, breathless, years of wanting packed into each desperate brush of lips and teeth.

When you pulled back, your lipstick smudged and eyes hazy, he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

And once the door shut behind you, there was no more hesitation.

He undressed you like he was solving a puzzle—carefully, reverently. His hands memorized the shape of you, his mouth tracing a soft path along your collarbone, down your chest, making you gasp and arch and feel. You watched his brain click into overdrive—not analyzing, just worshiping.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “I should’ve told you every damn day.”

You pulled his shirt over his head, pressing your palms to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Then start now,” you said, voice breathless. “Make up for it.”

And he did.

With every touch, every moan, every whispered I see you now, he rewrote the silence you’d endured. You weren't just shining—you were on fire, and he let himself burn in you.

Afterward, tangled in sheets and sweat and laughter, he whispered something against your bare shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to the way we were. I want to know you—every part. Not just when you’re glowing. Even when you’re dim.”

You turned in his arms, touched his cheek, and kissed him slow and sweet.

“You’ve got me now, Spencer. All of me.”

And in the soft light of morning, you weren’t hiding.

You were bejeweled—and finally loved for it.

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